rXTY 

NE 


V  \TOiTN; 

,UTHER 
LONG  -» 


SIXTY  JANE 


•  '  •  . 

.V. 


Aud  then,  at  the  very  last,  to  put  each  piece  away  in 
rose-leaves  or  violets." 


SIXTY    JANE 

AND  THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFE- 
PLATZ  RAILROAD  <*  "OUR  ANCHEL"  & 
THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL  <$  THE 
BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD  ® LUCKY 
JIM  *  THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN- 
DREAM  &  THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN 
THE  LITTLE  STREET  WHERE  THE 
SUN  NEVER  CAME  $?THE  ATONEMENT 


BY 

JOHN   LUTHER   LONG 

AUTHOR  OF  "MADAME  BUTTERFLY,"  "PRINCE  OF 
ILLUSION,"  "NAUGHTY  NAN,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1903 


Copyright,  1902,  1903,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Copyright,  1899,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company. 


Copyright,  1903,  by  The  Butterick  Publishing  Co.  (Limited). 

Copyright.  1899.  by  T°hn  Brisben  Walker. 
Copyright,  1899,  by  Pearson's  Publishing  Co. 
opyright,  1901,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &.  Son. 
ght,  1899,  by  Ainslee  Magazine  Co. 


Copy 
Co 
Copyrig 


Published  October,  IQOJ 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


THESE  ARE 

THAT  YOU  MAY  NOT  HEIN 
OUSLY  FORGET  THE  LITTLE 
JOYS  AND  THE  VAST  SORROWS 
OF  THOSE  WHOM  YOU  SHALL 
HAVE  ALWAYS  WITH  YOU 

THE    POOR 


CONTENTS 
SIXTY  JANE 

PAGE 

I  When  Jane  Went  Shopping  —  Long  Ago  .,...„..  3 

ii  When  Jane  Was  111  in  Sixty -one 5 

in  When  Dawn  Began  to  Come  to  Jane 8 

iv  When  Jane  Was  to  Have  Been  a  Bride     ...„,...  13 

v  When  Jane  Sang  Softly  "  Fading,  Still  Fading" 18 

vi  When  the  Sun  Made  Terror  Plain 21 

Vii  "  Only  Waiting  Till  the  Shadows  " 24 

viii  When  Do  You  Think  She  Will  Wake? 28 

THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

i  Chuff 33 

n  Chill 35 

in  Flicker 38 

iv  Ermentrude 43 

v  Blinsinger 48 

vi  Pink 53 

Vii  Finis 55 

"OuR  ANCHEL" 

i  Daisy  Wished  I  Was  a  Copperhead 61 

ii  By  the  Lord,  it  Was  n't  Hal ! 71 

in  Gettysburg! 74 

iv  It  Was  War 78 

v  The  Valley  of  Death .  83 

Vi  Home! 86 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 

PAGE 

i  The  Place  Which  Throbbed 93 

ii  No  Soul  Has  She 95 

in  Grammis's  Weapon % 

iv  Love's  Danger-Lamps 99 

v  "  Remember  Then  What  I  Am  Now  " 102 

vi  "  Because  I  Love  You  —  Because  I  Love  You  " 104 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

i  The  Mogi  Road 109 

ii  The  Bay  Among  the  Boulders 112 

in  Snowflake 115 

iv  The  Last  Night  of  the  Feast  of  the  Blessed  Dead 119 

LUCKY  JIM 

i  The  Chain-Gang 125 

n  Master  God 128 

in  The  Sinister  Sun 131 

iv  The  City  of  the  Night 133 

v  Such  a  Specimen! 135 

vi  The  Pain  at  Jim's  Heart .  137 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  Miss  DAWN- DREAM 

i  About  an  Inch  Past  Seven  in  the  Morning 14% 

ii  At  One  in  the  Afternoon 154 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET  WHERE 
THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME 163 

THE  ATONEMENT 

i  "After  Taking" 189 

n  How  Heroes  Are  Made— In  the  Newspapers 193 

m  The  Blond  Capillaries 199 

iv  What  Rent  Should  One  Pay  for  a  Patch  of  Skin?      .    .     .     .  201 
v  She  Sent  Him  to  Nell— Then  Sobbed! 203 


SIXTY  JANE 


SIXTY  JANE 


WHEN  JANE  WENT  SHOPPING— LONG  AGO 

I  DID  not  know  then,  and  I  do  not  know  now,  why 
they  called  her  "  Sixty  Jane."  Perhaps  because  she 
was  always  dressed  in  the  things  of  the  period  of 
1860.  At  all  events,  you  did  not  know  her,  and  I 
saw  her  only  twice.  The  first  was  on  one  of  those 
holiday  occasions  when  she  would  issue  from  some 
unknown  habitat  in  the  slums  to  "  go  shopping."  She 
did  this  in  the  biggest  of  the  big  stores,  and  with  quite 
an  empress  air— ordering  everything,  buying  nothing. 
Salespeople  found  it  easier  to  "sell"  her  everything 
she  wanted,  and  then  to  return  her  purchases  to  the 
shelves. 

On  these  occasions  she  was  sure  to  be  "  dressed  up." 
And  her  toilets  were  always,  as  I  have  said,  of  the  style 
and  pattern  of  1860.  If  her  shopping  excursions  were 
festival  occasions  to  her,  I  should  have  added  that  they 
were  even  more  so  to  the  boys  who  had  the  felicity  to 
encounter  her  then.  The  temptation  to  make  bril 
liant  epigrams  concerning  the  bandbox  she  invariably 
carried  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

3 


4  SIXTY  JANE 

Her  head-gear  also  lent  itself  to  the  encouragement 
of  juvenile  humor.  It  was  a  turban  of  apple-green 
velvet,  adorned  with  flowers  and  feathers  in  a  profu 
sion  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  object  they  were  set 
to  embellish.  And  it  had  the  look  of  distress  which 
might  have  come  from  having  been  rained  upon,  and 
having  beon  inadvertently  sat  upon,  and  of  having 
been  lovingly  restored.  There  would  be  a  Zouave 
j\3\-ct  of  blue  with  faded  gold  braid,  and  a  flounced 
frock,  which  she  invariably  carried  so  as  to  exhibit 
the  skirt  of  white  beneath.  A  generous  collar  with 
thin  ruffles  at  the  edge  completed  this  part  of  her 
costume. 

All  this  was  supported  by  a  hoop-skirt  which  gave 
the  boys  more  pleasure  than  any  other  article  of  her 
attire.  For  they  would  run  back  and  forth  to  tilt  this, 
with  elaborate  evidence  of  accident.  Then  would  be 
disclosed  to  the  inactive  participants  a  pair  of  Con 
gress  gaiters,  out  of  the  relaxed,  calyx-like  tops  of 
which  started  a  pair  of  ghostly  ankles. 

So  it  was  that  on  these  holiday  occasions  the  boys 
would  pelt  her  bandbox,  tilt  her  hoop-skirt,  make 
humorous  remarks  about  her  turban,  and  "worry" 
her  in  the  way  boys  know  so  well,  until  she  turned 
and— smiled ! 

Then,  somehow,  they  would  slink  away  and  be  sorry 
—only,  I  dare  say,  to  do  it  again.  But  one  of  them 
at  least  did  not  for  days  forget  the  great  brown  eyes 
he  had  seen,  and  the  something  in  them  which  he 
knows  now  was  hunger— weariness ;  nor  the  huge 
mass  of  copperish  hair  which  glorified  the  silly  apple- 
green  turban  and  its  feathers  and  flowers;  nor  the 


SIXTY  JANE  6 

vast  sweetness  he  felt— but  could  not  otherwise  ac 
count  for.  For  Sixty  Jane  was  young  then,  and  had 
not  been  Sixty  Jane  long. 

And  I— for  you  perceive  that  I  was  one  of  the  boys 
who  tilted  the  hoop-skirt,  and  that  I  have  made  you 
my  confessor — did  not  know  then  (no  one  did)  that 
the  bandbox  held  some  article  of  a  trousseau  which 
through  forty  tired  years  she  was  never  to  complete 
and  never  to  wear,  and  that  when  she  looked  into  the 
faces  of  men  she  was  mistily  seeking  a  lover  who  never 
came,  and  who  never  would  come,  because  he  was  dead ; 
because  the  lips  and  the  hands  and  the  eyes  with  which 
he  had  told  her  he  adored  her— as  all  men  do— were 
dust. 

Do  you  care  for  the  story  of  Sixty  Jane?  It  is  a 
very  humble  one.  And  if  you  do  not  fancy  that  sort 
of  tiling,— the  pity,  the  sorrow,  the  joy,  of  the  humble, 
—stop  where  you  are.  There  is  nothing  else. 


II 

WHEN  JANE  WAS  ILL  IN  SIXTY-ONE 

THE  second  time  I  saw  her  was  not  long  after  my  or 
dination.  It  was  my  "turn"  in  the  Alaska-Street 
"  Settlement."  I  fear  I  was  not  sufficiently  lowly  then 
for  exactly  that.  I  still  took  pride  in  the  fit  of  my 
clerical  coat  and  the  way  my  waistcoat  buttoned  up ; 
and  I  remember  the  satisfaction  I  had  in  the  plain 
cross  of  Roman  gold  which  I  was  permitted  to  wear. 


6  SIXTY  JANE 

At  dusk  on  the  first  Saturday  of  my  service,  the 
maid,  answering  the  door,  informed  me  that  I  was  to 
go  to  Alaska  Street.  Some  one  was  ill  there.  The 
call  was  urgent.  The  man  was  at  the  door  and  would 
conduct  me.  I  looked  ruefully  at  my  freshly  var 
nished  shoes,  and  was  about  to  change  them,  when  I 
heard  the  voice  of  the  messenger.  He  had  been  left 
at  the  open  door. 

"  <  For  inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the 
least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me.' " 

Not  to  me.  He  was  repeating  it  to  himself.  But 
it  accused  me  weirdly. 

I  put  on  my  hat  and  followed  him. 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  stooped  and  whiskered,  and 
ill  clad. 

"  Who  are  you?"  I  asked. 

"  The  doctor's  driver,"  he  answered. 

"What  doctor?"  I  asked  again. 

"  Wliat  doctor?"  he  said,  and  turned  to  look  at  me 
accusingly.  He  spoke  no  more  until  he  had  brought 
me  to  a  decrepit  tenement— decrepit  even  for  Alaska 
Street.  An  old  horse  and  buggy  were  standing  there. 
He  pointed  up  the  stairway  which  opened  like  a  foul 
mouth  from  the  outside. 

"Up  top,"  he  said.  Then,  as  if  I  had  not  under 
stood,  "  Garret,"  he  added.  "  The  doctor  's  there." 

I  had  never  been  in  a  place  quite  so  bare  and  squalid. 
It  chilled  and  depressed  me.  I  think  I  shivered.  Per 
haps  it  was  more  disgust  than  cold.  The  doctor 
noticed  this.  He  was  just  going— a  stoop-shouldered, 
pale-eyed,  silent  old  man.  He  looked  at  me,  from  my 
varnished  shoes  upward,  a  little  doubtfully,  and  con- 


SIXTY  JANE  7 

tinned  to  wrap  his  hypodermic  instruments  in  a  piece 
of  cotton  flannel.  I  saw  that  it  was  worn  with  much 
using,  and  at  one  place  torn. 

When  this  was  done  he  stood  up— not  straight;  he 
could  not  have  done  that— and  looked  at  me  again, 
my  face  now,  more  carefully.  He  was  a  little  kinder 
then. 

"  When  she  wakes/'  he  said  gently,  "  she  will  remem 
ber.  Be  good  to  her.  It  will  be  the  last  time  she 
will  need  us." 

He  went  so  softly  that  I  scarce  knew  he  had  left  me 
alone.  But  then,  in  the  little  moment  of  reflection 
which  came,  I  understood  why  he  was  simply  "the 
doctor."  I  remembered  all  I  had  heard  of  him,  and 
saw  that  he  was  threadbare  and  poor  and  tired  him 
self—quite  like  those  he  served.  And  then,  also,  I 
understood  how  he  comforted  the  poor  as  I  could  not 
—not  unless  they  should  learn  to  call  me  "the  min 
ister  "  as  they  called  him  "  the  doctor." 

I  turned  to  the  sick  woman.  Recollection  knocked 
at  my  brain,  and  knocked  again,  and  presently  I  knew 
that  it  was  Sixty  Jane. 

She  slept  lightly ;  she  smiled.  There  was  a  coal-oil 
lamp  on  a  little  wooden  bracket.  By  that  I  stood  at 
the  foot  of  the  thing  she  would  have  called  her  bed, 
and  studied  her  sleeping  face.  It  was  Jane.  But  I 
was  a  little  boy  when  I  had  seen  her  before,  and  now 
I  was  a  man.  I  could  not  see  the  great  eyes  I  remem 
bered,  but  the  smile  on  her  shrunken  features  seemed 
quite  the  same.  And  the  hair  which  had  been  sunny 
then  was  gray  now— at  the  temples  two  great  waves  of 
white.  And  yet,  somehow,  it  was  very  beautiful  that 


8  SIXTY  JANE 

way— even  as  a  pair  of  dove's  wings.  One  could  see 
that  it  had  been  cared  for  lovingly.  My  mood  was 
become  very  gentle,  and  perhaps  I  saw  her  in  a  fash 
ion  quite  unreal.  I  do  not  know.  Certainly  she  did 
not  now  seem  anything  like  the  invertebrate  subject 
of  our  boyish  jokes.  And  those  two  rich  white  wings 
I  fancied,  in  my  mood  of  gentleness,  finally,  to  be  more 
beautiful  than  the  radiant  locks  I  remembered.  Just 
above  the  bed  was  a  head  of  Jane  done  in  water-colors, 
—and  she  was  not  at  all  Sixty  Jane  then,— and  with 
it,  on  the  same  medallion,  was  another  one— a  dark 
young  man  with  a  smooth  face  and  somber,  serious 
eyes.  The  shoulders  of  a  clerical  coat  of  the  fashion  of 
many  years  before  showed,  and  a  cross  of  plain  gold 
something  like  mine.  The  hair  of  the  portrait  was  so 
long  as  to  curl  a  little  at  the  ends,  and  there  was  a  rich 
dark  lock  combed  before  each  ear. 

I  am  looking  at  the  portraits  as  I  write.  And  the 
one  with  the  brilliant  hair  seems  smiling  at  me.  I  am 
glad  even  to  fancy  that. 

For  you  are  to  know  that  I  lied  for  her— I,  a  min 
ister.  Yet  I  am  not  sorry ;  there  is  nothing  to  repent, 
for  I  am  sure  that  God  understands. 


Ill 

WHEN  DAWN  BEGAN  TO  COME  TO  JANE 

WE  were  quite  alone,  the  crazy  woman  and  I,  in  the 
cold  and  grime  of  the  garret  of  a  tenement.     But  there 


SIXTY  JANE  9 

was  an  unnamable  sweetness  in  it— I  could  not  quite 
tell  why.  Perhaps  God  had  given  me  a  little  intelli 
gence  of  what  was  to  come. 

She  did  not  wake  till  the  dawn  began  to  come  j  not 
in  the  windows,— no  dawn  ever  shone  there,— but  in 
a  faint  flush  far  away.  Perhaps  I  had  slept  a  little 
myself. 

If  it  were  so,  then  I  must  first  have  heard  her  voice 
in  my  sleep.  It  seemed  so  marvelous  for  melody  that 
I  did  not  at  once  credit  it  to  her.  I  had  not  heard  it 
on  the  other  occasion  when  I  had  seen  her.  It  said 
softly,  yet  with  pulsing  emotion : 

"Arthur!" 

But  as  I  looked  at  her  the  voice  no  longer  seemed 
strange.  For  the  waking  had  wrought  a  transforma 
tion  in  her  features  which  was  wondrous.  They  were 
brilliant  now,  and  sparkled  with  a  certain  glow  of 
immortal  youth.  Her  face  smiled  upon  me,  and  her 
hands  were  outheld.  Her  eyes  had  been  opened,  but 
now  they  closed.  She  spoke  with  them  thus— with 
softness,  and  tenderness,  and  wonder,  and  joy  immea 
surable  : 

"Arthur!" 

Then  slowly,  very  slowly,  the  great  eyes  opened,  and 
they  were  as  I  had  seen  them  long  ago.  I  knew  later 
that  she  did  this  to  assure  herself  that  she  was  not 
dreaming.  Only  now  they  were  full  of  strange  violet 
lights,  and  something  with  which  the  violet  lights 
seemed  to  have  to  do— sanity,  intelligence.  And  the 
rosy  flush  of  the  dawn  reflected  from  somewhere  fixed 
itself  in  her  face,  and  she  was  young  again,  like  the 
picture,  when  she  had  not  at  all  been  Sixty  Jane. 


10  SIXTY  JANE 

Then  she  saw  me.  I  had  again  moved  to  the  foot 
of  her  bed.  I  saw  recollection  knock  at  her  misty 
brain-doors;  I  saw  them  open;  I  saw  intelligence, 
remembrance,  flash  into  the  eyes  that  had  so  long  been 
vacant.  Then  she  said  again : 

"Arthur!* 

Now  it  was  a  breathless  interpretation  of  yearning 
— when  one's  soul  yearns.  Her  arms  strained  to  their 
utmost  toward  me. 

*'  Why  do  you  not  come  to  me  ?  Do  you  not  know 
that  I  have  been  ill— dying  ?  Have  they  not  told  you  ? 
Have  they  deceived  me?  Why  do  you  not  come  to 
me,  Arthur,  my  love  ? 7; 

At  the  last  she  was  whispering  so  wondrously  that 
I  could  not  have  stayed  if  I  would.  I  moved  slowly, 
uncertainly,  to  her  side. 

"  Yes/7  she  whispered ;  "  yes— yes— -yes.  At  first  I 
thought  it  might  still  be  a  part  of  the  dream,  but  I 
feel  your  hand.  I  never  could  do  that  in  the  dream. 
And  you— will  you  not  take  mine  ?  Have  you  forgot 
ten  how  ?  n 

She  laughed  a  little  and  thrust  her  hands  into  mine. 

Thus  I  stood  an  awkward  moment.  Then  she  said 
with  archness  and  reproach : 

"  Arthur!77 

I  was  about  to  tell  her  that  I  was  not  Arthur.  But 
the  words  of  the  doctor  flashed  into  my  head.  "  Be 
good  to  her/7  he  had  said. 

"  Yes,"  I  said  to  the  doctor.  To  her :  "  What  is  it 
you  wish  ? " 

"  What  is  it— I  wish  f     Do  you  not  know  ? " 

"I  do  not  think  I  do— quite/'  I  said. 


SIXTY  JANE  11 

"So  soon— have  you  forgotten  so  soon?  Do  you 
not  wish  to  kiss— my  hands?" 

Again  an  awkward  silence.  And  then,  with  a 
caress  of  the  melodious  voice : 

"  Dearest ! " 

At  the  instant  I  happened  to  glance  at  the  picture 
over  the  bed.  Then  I  quite  understood.  The  young 
priest  of  the  medallion  looked  very  like  me.  In  a 
moment  of  uncontrollable  revulsion  I  tried  to  withdraw 
my  hands ;  but  she  gripped  them,  and  a  little  terror 
sped  across  her  face. 

"No!  You  shall  not!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  you 
must— must  kiss  my  hands,  as  you  used  to  do  before 
I  was  ill.  You  cannot  have  forgotten— so  soon— so 
very  soon  !  Oh,  kiss  my  hands  !  Then  I  shall  know 
best  of  all  that  you  are  not  the  dream.  Arthur- 
kiss— my— hands  ! n 

At  the  end  it  was  a  mad,  ineffable  plea.  I  put  my 
lips  upon  them,  wrinkled  and  withered  and  calloused  as 
they  were ;  and  I  was  glad  then,  and  I  am  glad  now, 
that  I  could  bring  a  smile  of  such  wondrous  glory  to  a 
human  face. 

"Ah,  you  are  not  the  dream !  And  my  lips,  too— 
kiss  my  lips,  Arthur  !  n 

And  I  kissed  her  lips. 

I  half  sat  on  the  bed,  and  she  kept  me  at  her  side, 
with  an  arm  about  me. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  like  years  and  years  instead  of  only 
a  few  days,  or  at  most  a  few  weeks.  It  can't  have 
been  more  than  a  few  weeks  since  they  told  me  that 
you  were  ill  with  the  fever  and  would  die.  Oh,  sweet 
heart,  I  feel  yet  the  terror ;  it  ran  straight  through 


12  SIXTY  JANE 

me,  and  then"— she  stopped  to  laugh— " and  then  it 
turned  back  and  ran  straight  through  me  again— and 
again— and  again  !  That  is  the  way  with  terror,  is  n't 
it  ?  And  then  they  told  me  that  I  was  going  to  be  ill, 
too,  and  that  I  might  die.  That  was  when  I  sent  for 
you."  She  laughed  again.  "  I  told  them  I  ivould  n't 
die  till  you  came— and  then  you  would  n't  let  me  die. 
That 's  what  you  said,  don't  you  know  ?  That  you 
would  snatch  me  back  from  death  to  make  me  your— 
yes— your  bride,  sir !  But  I  suppose  you  were  too  ill 
to  come  at  once.  At  least,  I  don't  remember  seeing 
you  until  to-day.  Oh,  perhaps,  sweetheart,  you  have 
been  by  my  side  through  it  all,  and  I  only  knew  you 
to-day  ?  For  my  head  has  been  wrong.  Oh,  I  know 
that !  That  is  what  I  mean  by  the  dream.  One's  head 
is  always  wrong  when  one  has  the  fever.  Yes,  I  know 
that  you  have  been  here  all  the  weeks— oh,  maybe 
months— of  my  illness.  Because  you  are  quite  well. 
Oh,  it  was  sweet  for  you  to  give  me  your  own  dear  face 
to  rest  my  eyes  upon  first.  But  you  were  always 
sweet,  always !  Oh,  there  is  no  one  in  all  the  world 
like  you ! " 

The  emotion,  the  joy,  exhausted  her.  She  stopped 
to  rest.  Then  she  saw  me  more  critically. 

"I  do  not  like  it  that  you  have  so  outstripped  me 
in  getting  well.  Why,  you  look  as  if  you  had  not  been 
ill  at  all !  It  must  have  been  months  instead  of  weeks. 
Come  closer.  My  eyes  seem  dim — like  those  of  a 
very  old  person.  But  that  is  the  way  when  one  has 
been  ill.  The  eyes  are  weak.  I  must  take  care  of 
them.  Some  moments  your  face  seems  quite  vague. 
Has  n't  it  been  months  since  I  sent  for  you,  dearest  ? n 

"  It  has  been  months,"  I  said. 


SIXTY  JANE  13 

"Yes.  But  what  does  that  matter?  We  are  to 
gether  again— never,  never  to  part.  And  it  is  sweet— 
sweeter  than  you,  a  man,  can  understand— to  be  to 
gether  again,  never  to  part.  For,  Arthur,  I  am  not 
going  to  be  nasty  any  longer.  We  shall  be  married 
whenever  you  like.  And  please  like  soon— soon ! 
Only  you  know  I  did  want  the  trousseau  so  much ! 
But  now"— she  became  girlishly  arch— "when  shall 
it  be,  sir  ? " 

"  As  soon  as  you  wish,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  have  no  wishes  about  the  mat 
ter  !  Once  you  had— very  decided  wishes." 

She  laughed  surely,  and  I  said  "  Yes,"  trying  to  echo 
the  laugh.  This  comforted  her. 

"  Oh,  TJcnow  your  wishes  !  How  could  I  not  know 
them  ?  Did  I  not  hear  them  day  by  day  ?  And  now, 
just  at  this  one  moment,  I  am  sorry  that  I  did  not 
heed  them.  If  I  had  I  would  now  be  your  wife.  And 
that  would  be  sweeter  than  even  this.  Your  wife  !  " 

She  looked  away  toward  the  hidden  sunrise.  The 
glory  of  the  Sabbath  which  was  rising  came  into  her 
face. 

u  Oh,  it  is  so  splendid— your  wife !  There  is  no 
thing  so  splendid  in  all  the  world  !  Your  wife  !  " 

After  a  moment  she  resumed  the  other  thought. 


IV 

WHEN  JANE  WAS  TO  HAVE  BEEN  A  BRIDE 

"  ONE  day —you  must  remember  that— you  commanded 
me  to  marry  you !     Don't  you  remember  how  I  told 


14  SIXTY  JANE 

you  it  was  not  quite  time  to  begin  to  obey  f  That,  any 
how,  I  would  not  be  married  in  your  slums,  but  in  my 
own  home.  And  so  there  !  Oh,  it  was  nearly  a  quar 
rel  !  But  then  you  said  you  were  sorry,  and  I  was 
much  more  sorry  j  for,  you  see,  I  had  to  be  sorry  for 
two.  Always  a  woman  must.  Because  I  had  been  so 
nasty  myself— to  you— you !— and  because  you  were 
sorry.  And  then  I  told  you  what  the  true,  the  real 
reason  was.  How  a  bride  must  have  a  trousseau,  and 
that  you  would  never  respect  me  if  I  married  you  with 
out  one.  And  I  would  have  one  that  was  glorious, 
splendid.  Oh,  there  are  a  thousand  things  a  bride 
must  think  of  which  a  bridegroom  has  no  conception 
of — none  at  all !  The  tailor  makes  him  a  bridegroom, 
but  a  bride  makes  herself.  And,  darling,  you  must 
let  a  bride  have  her  way ;  for  she  is  a  bride  only  once. 
Yes,  sir ;  only  once.  Oh,  yes  j  I  know  there  are  women 
who  marry  two,  three,  four  times.  But  even  they  are 
brides  but  once.  The  rest  ?  Well,  I  shall  be  married 
but  once.  Ah,  that  dear  bridehood !  Think !  To  see 
every  little  piece  of  the  trousseau  grow  into  marvels 
of  lace  and  silk !  To  do  all  the  thousands  of  little 
things  one  will  never,  never  do  again— never!  The 
things  which  one  has  lived  for  and  dreamed  of  from 
childhood!  And  to  do  them  all  with  love  infinite— 
oh,  infinite !  To  consecrate  each  stitch  with  kisses ;  to 
say  to  every  little  flimsy  thing :  '  Be  beautiful  j  be  the 
most  beautiful  and  dainty  in  the  world !  You  are  to 
adorn  his  bride— Aim,  the  king,  the  emperor,  the  god, 
the  all  in  all ! ;  And  then,  when  each  little  thing  is 
done,  to  hold  it  up  to  the  light ;  to  put  it  on  and  off, 
oh,  a  hundred  times ;  to  stand  this  way  and  that  before 


SIXTY  JANE  15 

the  mirror— to  make  it  more  perfect  after  it  is  perfect. 
And  then,  at  the  very  last,  to  put  each  piece  away  in 
rose-leaves  or  violets,  with  guilty  kisses  and  caresses, 
with  rapture  a  man  can  never  know,  with  tears— both 
of  joy  and  of  sorrow;  to  watch  them  as  a  miser  does 
his  treasure ;  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning  for  a  look ; 
to  take  one  alone  late  at  night— after  one  has  prayed 
God  to  keep  him  for  whom  they  all  are  j  to  wait  for 
the  one  day  in  all  the  life  of  a  woman— her  splendid, 
glorious,  delirious  wedding-day !  " 

She  paused  again,  perhaps  from  exhaustion ;  but  the 
rapture  which  had  come  with  the  sun  remained. 

"You  will  tire  yourself,  I  fear,"  I  said  gently. 

"Tire  myself  talking  about  my  wedding?  When 
did  ever  a  girl  tire  of  talking  of  her  wedding  1  And 
to  him  she  is  to  wed  ?  Oh,  let  her  talk  !  Never,  never 
again  can  she,  will  she,  be  so  eloquent !  Does  it  bore 
you— perhaps  just  a  little?" 

I  said  that  it  did  not. 

"  Oh,  dearest,  a  man  does  not  understand  because— 
just  because  he  is  a  man." 

She  laughed  lowly.  But  I  could  see  that  the 
strength  with  which  she  supported  this  emotion  was 
artificial. 

"  You  don't  mind  me  saying  that  ?  I  like  you  to 
be  a  man.  And  you  are— you  always  were— more  of 
a  man  than  any  one  I  knew.  Yet  you  were  sweet. 
Oh,  I  think  the  bigger  and  greater  and  braver  and 
stronger  a  man  is,  the  more  manly  he  is,  the  sweeter, 
the  more  like  a  woman,  he  is  inside  at  the  heart,  soul. 
So  you  were  always  sweet  to  me.  And  you  would  let 
me  talk,  talk,  talk  j  and  I  remember  how  sometimes 


16  SIXTY  JANE 

the  tears  came  when  you  did  not  even  know  it— for 
me  !  You  see,  I  must  tell  you !  You  must  understand. 
There  is  no  one  for  me  else.  We  are  orphans,  out 
casts.  Other  girls  have  their  sisters  or  intimate 
friends  to  tell  it  to.  I  have  not— only  you— only  you 
in  all  the  whole  world  now.  I  chose  it  to  be  so.  I 
wanted  no  one  but  you.  For  in  you  I  found  every 
thing  I  wished.  You  could  understand  better  than 
most  girls  could.  That  is  why  I  talk  to  you  of  it. 
Why,  don't  you  know  that  girls  laugh  and  cry  over 
everything,  and  for  the  same  reason  ?  When  they  are 
going  to  be  married  they  grow  possessed.  They  tear 
up  all  the  old  letters,  and  weep  over  them.  They  put 
away  the  dolls  they  have  treasured  from  infancy— and 
first  kiss  them,  sobbing.  They  put  away  the  books 
they  have  kept  from  their  school-days,  reading  first 
the  inscriptions  in  them.  They  put  away  all  childish 
things  to  begin  another  and  infinitely  sweeter  life— 
the  life  of  a  woman !  Oh,  yes ;  it  is  as  completely 
another  life  for  a  girl  as  if  she  were  born  anew.  Yes  j 
to  begin  another  and  sweeter  life.  To  take  leave,  joy 
ous,  eager,  hopeful  leave,  of  the  old  life ;  to  reach  out 
madly,  tempestuously,  for  the  new  one ;  to  dream,  both 
waking  and  sleeping,  of  him  ;  to  plan  for  all  the  future, 
for  all  eternity !  " 

For  a  moment  she  stopped,  and  I  forgot,  in  the 
sweetness  of  her  passion,  who  and  what  she  was,  and 
fancied  her  a  girl  on  the  verge  of  the  bridehood  she 
was  telling  me  of  so  thrillingly.  At  the  end  she  just 
whispered.  She  sobbed  a  little. 

"  And,  at  the  last,  to  come  to— you— into  your  arms ! 
To  cease  to  be— except  as  you  are.  To  be  one  with 


SIXTY  JANE  17 

you !  To  be  lost,  absorbed,  in  you !  All  this  have  I 
felt  and  been,  except  this  last— except  to  come  to  you. 
Ah,  sweetheart,  is  it  not  true  that  a  woman  is  a  bride 
but  once  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

The  trousseau  is  ready— almost  ready.  And  every 
piece  has  been  made  and  gathered  with  smiles  and 
tears,  just  as  I  have  told  you.  Go,  look!  But  do 
not  touch.  There— in  the  closet !" 

I  went,  compelled,  driven,  to  the  place  she  pointed 
out.  The  shelves  of  the  closet  were  loaded  with  par 
cels.  I  could  tell  which  were  those  of  the  earlier  years 
by  their  greater  care  and  daintiness.  These  were  in 
white  papers.  Later  they  were  in  manila  paper. 
Those  of  the  last  of  her  years  were  ill  made  and  were 
in  newspapers.  Some  were  unkempt  and  soiled  with 
much  carrying.  One  had  the  mud  of  the  street  upon 
it— where  it  had  perhaps  fallen  at  the  assault  of  some 
boy,  such  as  I  was  once.  What  the  parcels  contained 
I  know  not.  I  obeyed  her,  and  touched  none  of 
them. 

But  the  old  and  grimy  closet  breathed  an  odor  of 
rose-leaves  as  I  opened  it,  and  again  as  I  closed  it— 
that  odor  which  always  seems  to  me  as  dim  and  misty 
and  evanescent  as  the  past.  And  as  I  stood  there,  in 
that  rose-laden  atmosphere,  I  knew  once  more  why  / 
had  not  married,  why  I  cared  for  no  one  more  than 
another,  why  I  had  lived  my  life  with  no  comrade,  no 
other  soul,  and  why  I  meant  to  live  it  that  way.  There 
in  that  rose-odor  of  the  ineffable  past  I  stopped,  with 
my  face  to  the  closed  door,  and  saw  the  flower-faced 
girl  who  had  died.  It  had  been  very  long  ago,  but 


18  SIXTY  JANE 

I  saw  her  there.     There  had  never  been  another 
like  her;  there  never  could  be. 


WHEN  JANE  SANG  SOFTLY    "  FADING,   STILL  FADING'7 

WHEN  I  came  again  to  Jane  she  had  rested,  and  her 
eyes  glowed  upon  me.  She  must  have  seen  the  ten 
derness  in  my  own,  for  she  put  her  hands  within  mine 
and  said  archly : 

"You  did  not  touch?" 

"  I  did  not  touch,"  I  answered. 

"  It  shall  be,"  she  went  on,  "  as  soon  as  the  doctor 
says  I  am  well  enough.  And  he  shall  say  that  very 
soon.  For  you  will  tell  him,  and  I  will  tell  him,  and 
he  will  not  be  able  to  resist.  And  you  will  help  with 
kisses  and  caresses.  Ah,  it  has  been  very  sweet,  has 
it  not,  dear?  The  long  walks  in  the  dirty  streets— 
the  sunny  and  the  rainy  ones.  Oh,  sweetheart,  of  all 
the  days,  I  prefer  the  sunny  ones,  of  course,  because 
the  sun  and  your  love  seem  to  belong  together.  But 
if  not  those,  then  the  rainy  ones.  For  then  we  can 
be  very  close,  even  in  the  open  streets,  under  the 
umbrella ! " 

She  laughed  roguishly. 

"And  the  smell  of  the  garlic— how  I  hated  that  at 
first!  Don't  you  remember  how  you  said  that  my 
nose  was  too  insignificant  to  take  offense  at  it  ?  And 
that  I  said  that  it  was  n't  half  as  big  as  yours  ?  And 


SIXTY  JANE  19 

how  you  answered  that  for  that  reason  I  ought  not 
to  hate  it  half  as  much  as  you  did,  whereas  I  hated  it 
twice  as  much,  which  was  absurd  ?  And  how  you  fun 
nily  prophesied  that  I  would  learn  to  like  the  smell  of 
garlic,  as  you  had  learned  to  like  it  ?  Well,  darling, 
I  did!  Did  I  ever  before  confess  that?  No;  I  don't 
think  I  did.  1  do  so  now,  father— father  confessor ! 
I  confess  that  I  love  the  smell  of  the  garlic— and  you. 
I  confess  that  without  you  it  is  still  garlic— and  that 
I  hate  it !  There,  Arthur !  Was  n't  it  all  strange  and 
beautiful  ?  No  one  has  ever  been  like  that  or  done  like 
that  before  !  We  two  orphans  all  alone  down  here ! 
Don't  you  remember  how  I  tried  to  persuade  you  not 
to  come  ?  You  looked  so  dainty  in  your  clericals  and 
your  serious  patrician  face !  I  was  afraid  it  would 
have  to  be  always  dirty,  like  theirs,  poor  things  !  And 
I  was  absolutely  certain  you  would  always  have  muddy 
shoes ! n 

Again  she  laughed  joyously. 

I  kept  my  silence. 

"  And  I  told  you  the  thieves  would  be  sure  to  snatch 
your  cross !  And,  when  you  lost  it,  the  greatest  of  the 
thieves  brought  it  back  to  you !  Then  I  said— do  you 
remember  ?— that  if  you  would  do  it,  I  would  come  too, 
and  keep  your  house  for  you,  and  keep  you  neat  and 
tidy,  and  go  about  with  you,  to  protect  you !  Oh, 
sweetheart,  protect  you,  whom  the  great  God  protects  ! 
But  I  did  not  understand  then,  dearest.  I  did  not ! 
How  could  I  know  that  you  mean  not  to  be  like  them, 
but  to  make  them  like  you !  But,  anyhow,  I  did  all 
that,  did  n't  I,  sweetheart?  And,  even  though  I  did 
not  understand,  I  did  keep  your  house,  and  your 


20  SIXTY  JANE 

clothes,  and— your— heart !  Oh,  yes;  you  thought  I 
would  n't— that  I  would  not  hold  out.  But  you  did 
not  know  that  a  woman  can  do  anything,  anywhere, 
if  the  man  she  loves  is  there— if  it  is  for  him.  And 
soon  I  liked  it.  Because  it  was  so  very  sweet  to  go 
about  with  you— only  you— to  the  sick,  the  poor,  the 
hungry,  the  dying,  every  day,  every  day !  Oh,  I 
remember  that  people  said  mean  and  nasty  things 
about  us— that  is,  the  people  in  the  world  we  had  come 
from.  But  what  did  that  matter?  "We  were  in 
another  world,  and  in  that  world  every  soul  who  knew 
us  loved  us,  yes,  every  soul.  Why,  don't  you  remem 
ber  the  day  you  could  n't  find  me  until  you  came  to 
that  den  of  thieves  at  Front  and  Lombard  streets,  and 
found  me  with  all  the  thieves  in  the  half-darkness, 
singing  to  Billy  Briggs,  who  had  been  shot  and  was 
dying  1  I  did  n't  know  you  were  there  till  your  voice 
joined  mine.  Do  you  remember  what  it  was  we  sang  ? 

"Fading,  still  fading,  the  last  beam  is  shining; 
Father  in  heaven,  the  day  is  declining ; 
Safety  and  innocence  fly  with  the  light  —  ' 

She  sang  it  with  a  sweetness  that  was  wondrous. 
And,  as  I  happened  to  know  the  old  tune,  I  sang  it 
with  her,  taking  the  tenor. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands,  "that  way. 
Oh,  yes;  you  soon  found  out,  little  preacher  of  the 
poor,  that  I  was  doing  as  much  as  you,  and  doing  it  as 
well,  and  that  the  people  liked  me  even  more  than  they 
liked  you.  And  were  you  not  just  a  little  jealous  ? 
Ah,  they  liked  me  because  I  am  a  woman,  that  is  all. 


SIXTY  JANE  21 

And  you  were  a  little  angry  when  they  called  me  the 
Goddess  of  Thieves.  Of  course  it  would  n't  have 
sounded  well  to  have  to  announce  from  the  pulpit  of 
Grande  Square  that  the  Goddess  of  Thieves  would 
visit  in  Alaska  Street  on  such-and-such  days !  You 
remember  how  that  came  about  ?  I  had  always  such 
an  extraordinary  affection  for  the  thief  on  the  cross, 
and  I  told  them  about  that  so  often— and  it  was  so 
hard,  so  very  hard,  for  them  to  believe  that  Christ  had 
said,  l  This  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise.' " 

Her  speech  had  become  slower  and  more  difficult. 
Now  for  a  moment  she  lay  quite  still.  Her  eyes  closed 
wearily,  but  the  happy  smile  never  left  her  face.  When 
she  went  on  again  it  was  a  mere  murmur  at  first ;  but 
presently  her  voice  grew  a  little  stronger.  Yet  always 
it  was  soft. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  get 
into  corners— to— well,  so  that  you  might  hold  my 
hands  a  little  f  We  knew  where  all  the  places  were 
where  it  was  safe  to  do  that.  I  liked  that  place  on 
Catharine  Street  where  the  stairway  was  so  dark.  You 
could  kiss  me  there.  Do  you  remember  how,  when  I 
said  we  must  spend  our  honeymoon  in  Italy,  you  said : 
1  Yes,  Little  Italy ! '  Well,  so  it  shall  be— right  here 
in  Little  Italy !  " 

VI 

WHEN  THE  SUN  MADE  TERROR  PLAIN 

THE  sun  was  rising  and  making  objects  in  the  garret 
plainer.  She  had  not  yet  seen  anything  but  my  face. 


22  SIXTY  JANE 

Now,  as  I  inadvertently  turned  it  to  the  light,  she 
examined  it  a  little  more  anxiously. 

"Arthur  dear,"  she  said  then,  " there  is  something 
wrong.  You  do  not  look  quite  yourself.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  either.  Are  your  clothes  different,  or  are 
you  thinner,  or  both  ?  Your  hair  has  been  cut ;  and 
I  am  not  quite  sure  I  like  it  that  way.  It  is  like  Jim 
Griggs's.  And  you  look  older.  Ah,  I  understand. 
You  have  been  so  troubled  about  me.  Darling,  stop ! 
"Worry  makes  wrinkles.  But  there  is  no  more  need. 
I  shall  be  quite  well  now— and  soon." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  my  hands.  Something  in 
myself,  perhaps,  renewed  her  little  doubts,  and  again 
she  looked  up  at  me : 

"  Perhaps  it  is  my  eyes.  They  are  always  weak  after 
the  fever.  Were  n't  yours  ?  " 

I  said  they  were. 

She  laughed  and  said : 

"  I  feel  old,  old,  old,  and  I  shall  not  be  twenty  till 
January !  Arthur,  get  down  the  picture  and  hold  it 
up  by  your  face." 

I  did  so.  At  first  I  was  afraid  of  this  test;  but 
instantly  I  was  reassured :  she  was  quite  satisfied. 

"  Yes,  there  is  some  change ;  I  can't  quite  make  out 
what  it  is,  and  I  shall  not  try.  I  know  that  you  are 
my  Arthur— mine !  And  that  is  all  I  care  to  know." 

I  went  to  hang  the  picture  up  again. 

"  No,  take  it  with  you— to  your  own  room.  I  prom 
ised  it  to  you  when  it  was  made.  Take  it.  When 
you  go,  take  it." 

The  light  was  coming  more  and  more.  Suddenly 
she  stopped  and  stared  about.  I  saw  the  gray  shad 
ows  of  terror  touch  her  happy  face. 


SIXTY  JANE  23 

"When  you  go!"  she  repeated  in  vague  fear. 
"Suddenly  I  am  afraid  to  let  you  go.  I  don't— quite 
know  why.  Do  you  ? " 

"  There  is  no  reason  for  fear/'  said  I.  "  If  I  go  for 
a  little  while,  it  will  be  but  to  come  again." 

"  Yes ;  your  room  is  still  just  over  mine  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

But  yet  her  eyes  roved  the  bare  garret.  More  and 
more  the  sun  lighted  it  up  for  her.  Never  before  had 
I  wished  the  sun  to  be  hidden  away.  She  slowly  shud 
dered  back  upon  me. 

"Arthur,"  she  shivered,  "I  do  not— understand !  " 

Her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  bare  and  grimy 
shingles. 

"What  is  it  you  do  not  understand?"  I  asked, 
though  I  knew. 

"  All  this."  She  waved  her  hand  outward.  "  How 
did  I  come  here  ? " 

I  knew  nothing  to  say. 

"  Arthur,  this  is  not  your  house— our  home  ?  How 
did  I  come  here  ?  Where  am  I  ? " 

Then  I  thought  of  what  she  had  said. 

"  I  think  you  are  still  dreaming,"  I  said  gently. 

"  Oh !  "  It  was  a  vast  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  thought 
I  had  come  out  of  that.  You  remember  I  told  you 
when  I  first  saw  you.  And  nothing  is  real  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  I  said. 

"  Nothing  ? "  she  begged  wistfully.  "  Oh,  I  wish  you 
were  real.  It  has  been  so  sweet.  Darling,  are  not  you 
real  ?  Oh,  please  be  real !  " 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  am  real." 

She  tried  to  be  joyous,  but  distress  came  down  upon 
her  in  a  moment  again. 


24  SIXTY  JANE 

"  Ah,  but  how  can  I  know  ?  Oh,  yes  !  The  scar  on 
the  palm  of  your  hand !  Let  nie  see !  You  used  to 
say  that  I  might  always  know  you  by  that,  for  it 
could  never  change." 


VII 

"ONLY  WAITING  TILL  THE  SHADOWS" 

BEFORE  I  could  prevent  her,  she  had  seized  my  hand 
and  put  it  close  to  her  eyes.  With  a  moan  she  let  it 
go  and  covered  her  face. 

"  There  is  no  scar,"  she  whispered. 

I  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes  and  said  gently, 
piteously  : 

"  Your  eyes  are  very  bad." 

Something  like  trust  came  back  to  her  face  -,  but  the 
change  in  it  had  been  vast  and  shocking. 

"  And  these  are  not  shingles,  and  this  is  not  a  foul 
floor,  a  garret  ?  " 

"  Poor  eyes !  "  said  I. 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

"  Why,  of  course  it  is  the  eyes !  "  she  said.  "  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  You  would  not  let  it  be  other 
wise.  You— would— tell  me ! "  And  she  laughed 
again.  "  But  it  is  hard  to  understand.  Be  patient 
with  me,  dear.  The  covers  of  my  bed  were  dainty. 
These-" 

She  touched  with  loathing  the  rag  which  covered 
her.  As  she  did  so  she  caught  sight  of  her  hands  for 
the  first  time.  Her  face  flushed  burningly,  then 


SIXTY  JANE  25 

became  in  an  instant  pinched  and  leaden.  I  under 
stood,  but  I  had  no  words  to  dam  up  those  which 
rushed  from  her  soul : 

" Arthur— are  you— sure— sure— it  is  a— dream? 
My  God,  what  is  it?  This— this— seems  more  real 
than  anything ! " 

She  held  up  her  hands  to  me. 

"These  are  the  hands  of  an— old— old— woman ! 
And  poor !  One  who  works !  See,  they  are  stained 
calloused,  wrinkled,  bloodless !  The  nails  are 
unclean." 

She  examined  them,  analyzed  them,  as  if  they  were 
not  her  own ;  then  she  put  them  up  to  me. 

"  And  that  is  what  I  dreamed,"  she  whispered  on : 
"  that  it  all  happened  long,  long  ago— years  and  years 
ago.  They  told  me  that  you  were  dead,  and  then— 
very  suddenly— something  happened  to  my  head,  and 
I  lived  to  be  an  old,  old  woman,  and  wore  other  peo 
ple's  clothes,  but  always  the  kind  in  which  you  had 
seen  me  last,  so  that  you  would  know  me  when  you 
came.  For  I  seemed  to  know  that  you  were  not  dead 
—but  gone,  perhaps,  to  Italy  for  your  health,  and  that 
you  would  come  back.  Always  I  was  a  little  uncer 
tain  whether  you  were  dead  or  whether  you  were  in 
Italy  and  would  come  back  to  me.  And  that  made 
my  hair  gray.  But  I  preferred  to  believe  that  you 
would  come  back,  so  I  wore  always  the  clothes  you 
knew,— the  clothes  of  the  pictures,— so  that  you  would 
not  pass  me  by.  But  I  was  very,  very  old;  and  all 
that  happiness  I  had  thought  was  but  yesterday,  and 
would  be  again  to-morrow,  was  long,  long  ago  and 
could  never  be  again.  That  there  had  been  no  hap- 


26  SIXTY  JANE 

piness  for  years  and  years  and  years— only  waiting, 
waiting,  waiting—" 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  for  other  proof,  she  reached 
up  and  brought  around  to  her  eyes  a  handful  of  hair. 
And,  as  if  for  confirmation,  she  took  another  from  the 
other  side. 

She  shuddered  back  upon  the  pillow,  and  pulled  the 
hair  over  her  face. 

There  was  a  shutter  to  the  window.  I  softly  closed 
it  and  shut  out  the  sun.  Then  I  slowly  took  her 
hands  from  her  face. 

"  Such  a  dreadful  dream !  "  I  said.     "  Look !  " 

I  put  the  picture  before  the  dim  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  wondered;  and  then,  "Yes— yes— yes." 

"  And  has  it  not  always  hung  on  the  wall  of  your 
own  room  1 "  I  begged. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said  gropingly ;  then  gladly,  "  Yes 
—yes— yes ! " 

"  And  do  you  not  see  and  touch  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  still  more  happily.  She  looked 
about  the  now  shadowed  room.  "  And  the  room  is 
not  the  same  now.  Yes,  it  must  have  been  the  dream ; 
for  now  I  am  very  tired,  and  the  doctor  has  always 
said  that  the  dream  comes  when  one  is  tired.  Only 
I  seem  to  have  been  tired  for  years  and  years.  No ; 
I  cannot  see  the  shingles.  Arthur—" 

She  turned,  and  for  a  long  minute  looked  into  my 
very  soul.  Then  she  whispered— she  could  scarce  do 
more: 

"  Arthur— you  have  never  deceived  me.  You  have 
never  spoken  an  untruth,  even  in  kindness.  Do  not 
now.  I  could —endure  it  if  it  were— from  you !  " 


SIXTY  JANE  27 

"  Thank  God  !  you  need  not  endure  it,"  I  answered. 
"  He  doeth  all  things  well ! " 

"  And  my  hair  is  not— white?" 

Just  then,  as  if  God  were  helping  me  again,  a 
reflected  beam  fell  upon  it.  "The  sun  is  in  it,"  I 
answered. 

"  Yes  5  it  used  to  be  red,  yellow,  all  sorts  of  colors ! 
Don't  you  know  you  used  to  say  the  sun  was  in  it? 
And  my  hands—" 

Suddenly  she  thrust  them  out  to  me. 

"Kiss  them!" 

I  did  it,  one  after  the  other. 

She  laughed  joyously.  The  pink  came  back  to  her 
face. 

"  Now  I  Jcnow  that  it  is  true.  You  would  not  kiss 
them  if  they  were  as  I  thought  them— old  and  blood 
less,  wrinkled,  unclean.  You  could  not.  You  used 
to  call  them  exquisite,  immaculate." 

She  put  them  to  her  dimming  eyes. 

"  Now  they  do  not  look  as  they  did.  How  strange ! 
And  how  I  was  frightened !  But,  Arthur,  you— 
kissed  them ! " 

She  said  it  with  a  mighty  triumph,  and  was  at  peace. 

"  Arthur,"  she  whispered  happily,  "  bliss  has  come." 

"  Yes,"  I  whispered  back. 

"Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown, 
Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 
Their  last  sheaf  have  gathered  home." 

She  laughed  a  little.     I  sang  it  for  her  murmuringly. 
"It    is    like    that— evening,    rest,    peace,    sleep, 
dreams !  "  I  said. 


28  SIXTY  JANE 

"  The — waiting  ? "  she  questioned,  with  the  long  sigh 
of  a  tired  child. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  only  waiting ! " 

VIII 

WHEN  DO  YOU  THINK  SHE  WILL  WAKE? 

A  LONG  time  she  looked  at  the  hands,  smiling.  But 
presently  I  knew  that  she  did  not  see  them,  and  that 
it  was  something  else  her  mind  was  engaged  upon. 
At  last  she  looked  slowly  up  at  me  once  more.  The 
glory,  the  immortal  youth,  had  come  back  to  her  face. 
She  smiled  with  great  surety.  Then  she  laughed,  the 
low,  full  laugh  of  matchless  joy.  She  was  looking 
deeply  into  my  eyes. 

"  How  foolish  I  have  been  !  If  I  had  only  stopped 
to— think.  You  are  young  and  splendid,  just  as  you 
were  a  little  while  ago.  Therefore  I  cannot  be  very 
old,  for  you  are  seven  years  older  than  I  am  !  But  it 
seems  so  dreadful  to  go  to  sleep  at  twenty  and  wake 
to  find  one's  self —oh,  eighty !  —and  to  know  that  there 
had  been  no  happiness,  only  terror,  and  insanity,  and 
waiting,  and  hunger,  and  weariness !  But  the  hair 
and  the  hands,"— she  once  more  looked  about  the 
room,—"  and  the  other  things,  frightened  me,  terrified 
me.  But  now— forgive— O  my  beloved,  forgive  your 
doubtin  g — sweetheart — forgive — " 

She  was  at  the  end  of  the  resources  the  doctor  had 
given  her.  She  sank  exhausted  into  the  pillow.  For 
a  long  time  neither  of  us  spoke.  I  had  her  hand. 
With  that  she  seemed  quite  satisfied.  She  smiled  on. 


SIXTY  JANE  29 

"  Arthur,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  far  voice,  "  when 
—do  you  think— I  shall— wake?  The  dream,  you 
know.  I  want— to  wake— from  it— sometime.  Ar 
thur—when—shall  I— wake  to— my— happiness?" 

I  could  not  at  once  answer.  The  tears  were  in  my 
eyes.  I  hoped  I  should  not  need  to.  But  after 
another  silence  she  whispered  from  very  far  : 

"Arthur— dearest— you  never  deceived  me.  Tell 
me  '  true ' !  When-shall  I-wake  ?  " 

A  moment  I  meditated  my  answer. 

But  she  pressed  for  it,  softly,  gently,  as  if  it  might 
not  come  before  she  slept— as  if  she  must  have  it  before 
she  slept. 

"Arthur— my  love— when  shall  I  wake— to  my  joy 

— j°y— joy?" 

She  began  to  drowse.  Once  more  God  seemed  to 
help  me  to  my  answer. 

"  Very— soon ! "  I  said. 

"Arthur— let  it  be— in  your— arms." 

"Yes." 

"  Now  I  shall  sleep.  I  am  very —very  tired.  I  sup 
pose  I  have  talked  too  much.  The  doctor  told  me— 
not  to— talk  so— much.  But— it  was  too— sweet  to 
resist— opening  my  eyes— and  seeing— you— you— 
you.  That  is  always  the  way  when  one  is  getting 
well— to  be  tired— by  every— little— thing." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"  It  was  so— with  you  j  was  n't  it  ? " 

"Yes." 

This  was  now  my  one  word. 

"  Tired— tired— tired  !  "  she  murmured  from  out  the 
shadows,  happily.  "And  if  I  should— sleep— just  a 


30  SIXTY  JANE 

minute— you  will— not  go  away?  I  want  you  here— 
when  I  wake — to  see  you  first,  as  the  other  time.  And 
will  you  hold  my  hand— that  way— till  I  wake?  I 
will  not  sleep  long.  Will  you— hold  my  hand— till— 
I  wake— beloved?" 
"Yes,"  I  said. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE 
SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE 
SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 


CHUFF 

mem'ry  works  while  I  sleep,"  laughed  Hannikin 
Chuff,  as  he  rose. 

That  of  his  daughter  did  not.  He  tapped  on  her 
door  as  he  passed.  She  murmured  sleepily  within. 

"  'Sleep  yit  ? "  he  asked,  laughing. 

"Ye-es." 

"Well-you  nefer  mind.  I  11  git  it  myself."  He 
referred  to  his  breakfast. 

But  before  he  returned  from  the  spring  she  had  the 
fire  going. 

"Oh,  fat  >s  bully!"  laughed  Hannikin  Chuff. 
"  Sought  you  >d  forgot.  My  mem'ry  works  while  I 
sleep.  Now  I  kin  saw  wood." 

This  he  did. 

After  breakfast  Chuff  sawed  more  wood— for  his 
engine.  That  is  why  he  had  risen  an  hour  earlier. 
He  did  not  saw  wood  every  day.  He  filled  the  tender 
from  the  pile  he  had  made,  and  always  kept,  in  his 
forehanded  fashion,  then  pumped  the  boiler  full  and 
3  33 


34    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

the  cistern  empty.  When  the  fire  got  going  he  stood 
off  and  looked  at  his  engine. 

"  Guess  1 11  clean  her— a  little,"  he  said  affection 
ately,  though  she  really  did  not  need  it. 

There  were  four  brass  hoops  about  the  boiler,  which 
he  kept  ineffably  bright.  The  one  about  the  top  of  the 
stack  he  brought  a  ladder  to  reach.  He  set  the  safety- 
valve  at  eighty-five  pounds,  and  opened  the  ticket- 
office.  Then  he  filled  the  tin  basin  with  water  from 
the  cock  in  the  tender,  and  washed,  and  combed  his 
hair.  Finally  he  took  off  the  jeans  which  belonged  to 
the  engineership,  and  put  on  a  blue  cap  marked 
"  Ticket-agent." 

Presently  there  were  three  passengers,  a  woman 
with  an  enormous  waist  and  a  basket  of  apples  first. 

"Morning,"  greeted  Chuff,  busily. 

"  Ticket !  "  she  puffed  into  the  small  window. 

"One  way?" 

"  Well,  I  want  to  come  back." 

Chuff  cut  her  uncertainty  in  two : 

"  Excursion." 

He  wrote  the  date  on  the  ticket,  and  kept  his  hand 
on  it  guardedly. 

"What  's  the  price?"  sighed  the  fat  woman,  emp 
tying  a  netted  purse  on  the  sill. 

"  Sirty-two  cents." 

"No  change  yit?" 

"No." 

"  Eggs  is  down." 

"  Tickets  ain't." 

"  It  7s  soon  time,"  said  the  woman. 

"  T'ey  been  t'e  same  for  sirty-sefen  year,"  said  Chuff, 
irrelevantly. 


THE  STEIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  EAILEOAD    35 

The  next  was  a  Duukard  with  hair  parted  in  the 
middle  and  trimmed  straight  across.  He  put  a  tin 
ear- trumpet  into  the  window. 

"  What  did  you  charge  her  f  "  he  whispered  hugely. 

"  Sirty-two  cents." 

"  What  kin  I  git  a  ticket  for  1 " 

"  Sirty-two  cents." 

"But-t'at'st'esame!" 

"  T'is  is  a  one-price  railroad,"  said  Chuff. 

"Iss  it  always  sirty-two  cents?" 

"  Forefer." 

"An'  alwayss  will  be,  I  expect,"  complained  the 
Dunkard. 

"  I  expect." 

"  I  'f  e  beared  'at  some  people  rides  free  ? " 

"  Directors  an'  employees." 

"T'ey  call  it-" 

Chuff  helped  him : 

"  Dead-head." 

He  counted  out  an  unwilling  thirty-two  cents. 

"  I  sought  account  I  was  a  kind  a  relatif e  I  could 
also  be  a  deceased-head." 

"  My  Sis  pays  her  fare  ef ery  time." 

The  Dunkard  turned  hopelessly  away. 

"  An'  helps  at  t'e  ingine  yit,"  Chuff  flung  after  him 
cumulatively. 

II 

CHILL 

THE  plain  young  man  said  stenographically : 
"  Schlafeplatz  and  return." 


36    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

He  put  down  the  exact  change,  then  stood  with  his 
hand  on  his  hip  haughtily. 

Chuff  gave  him  his  ticket  without  a  word. 

"  Check  for  my  baggage,  please." 

Chuff  put  on  a  cap  marked  "  Baggage-agent,"  and 
gave  him  his  check.  His  baggage  was  a  green  canvas 
suit-case.  Chuff  closed  the  ticket-office  and  swung  the 
case  rudely  into  the  baggage-compartment  of  the  pas 
senger-car.  The  tin  clock  showed  the  time  to  be  eleven 
minutes  past  seven.  Schedule  time  was  7 : 14  A.M. 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  Sometimes  the  two  varied. 
They  agreed  to-day.  He  had  set  them  the  night  before. 
The  safety-valve  was  blowing  gently.  He  put  in  a 
stick  of  wood  and  closed  the  valve.  He  went  over  the 
tender  to  the  baggage-compartment,  where  he  got  a 
cap  marked  "  Conductor."  Then  he  stepped  down  to 
the  platform. 

"  All  aboard !  "  he  shouted  superfluously. 

There  was  some  jockeying  before  Chuff  got  his 
engine  off  and  steadied  down  to  her  gait.  Then  he 
tied  the  lever  with  a  twine,  and  collected  the  tickets. 

"Ain't  you  going  fearful  fast?"  asked  the  woman 
with  the  apples. 

"  Why,  no,  Mrs.  Gull,"  said  Chuff,  with  secret  pride  j 
"  only  'bout  sef en  miles  a'  hour." 

"  'Most  as  fast  as  a  horse  !  " 

Chuff  laughed. 

"  Oach !  A  horse  kin  do  fourteen.  I  >fe  run  her 
t'at  fast,  though,  when  she  wass  young— an'  I  wass 
—an'  rackless." 

"Fast  as  a  horse?" 

This  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Gull  to  believe. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD    37 

"  Why,  some  ingines  kin  go  as  fast  as  two  horses  !  " 
—Chuff's  cunning  way  of  saying  that  they  could  go 
twice  as  fast. 

"  Heth  Chill  "—she  looked  fearfully  around,  and  saw 
that  Chill  was  at  the  rear  of  the  car  (he  was  the  young 
man  with  the  green  suit-case)  — "  says  he  kin  run  a' 
ingine." 

"  He  can't  run  t'is  one." 

"Why?" 

"I  growed  up  wiss  her.  I  know  all  her  works— 
chust  like  I  know  my  own.  She  would  n't  mofe  for 
him.  No  more  'n  I  would!  She  knows  me,  an'  I 
know  her.  Chill !  Gosh-a-mighty !  He  don't  know 
a  squirting- waive  from  a  windmill !  Chill !  He 
worked  in  a'  ingine-shop  in  Schlaf eplatz  for  sree  days 
or  so,  an'  now  he  sinks  he  knows  t'is  ingine  I  growed 
up  wiss !  Chill !  Did  you  see  his  tarn'  little  green 
trunk?  An'  he  yit  wants  a  check!  You  might  as 
well  git  a  check  for  you'  apples.  She  's  about  a  sou- 
sand  yearss  old.  So  am  I.  She  gits  rheumatism  in 
her  connecting-rods.  So  do  I.  She  gits  mad  an'  plays 
hell  wiss  sings  sometimes— like  me.  Also  she  gits 
balky  an'  won't  go.  So  do  I.  She  7s  held  toget'er 
mostly  wiss  strings  an'  wire— like  me.  Yit— she  an* 
me 's  been  friends  ef er  since.  She  knows  me  t'e  minute 
I  come  about.  An'  you  kin  chust  bet  'at  I  know  her. 
Heth  Chill !  She  would  n't  mofe  a'  inch  for  him !  I 
bet  a  dollar  she  'd  bust  on  him." 

"  Some  day  mebbe  she  '11  bust  on  you,"  sighed  the 
woman,  ominously.  "  I  'm  always  afeard." 

Proud  as  Chuff  was  that  his  reckless  courage  should 
make  her  fear,  he  yet  comforted  her  gaily. 


38    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

"  You  sink  she  M  hurt  me !  Look-a  yere ;  as  long 
as  I  run  t'at  ingine  you  safe.  She  an'  me  air  friends. 
Some  day  she  '11  play  out,  I  expect.  But  so  will  I. 
Don't  you  worry.  I  got  strings  an'  wires  enough  to 
make  her  last  as  long  as  I  do.  When  she  plays  out 
she  '11  chust  stop" 

"An'  I  got  to  walk  home?" 

"  Chust  so." 

"  After  paying  my  fare  ? " 

"  Well— if  you  'd  rat'er  be  bio  wed  up—  Say,"— now 
Chuff  was  serious,  — u  slie  would  n't  hurt  no  one  if  she 
would  blow  up.  She  'd  jist  bust  t'e  strings  an'  wires, 
an'  separate." 

Chuff  reached  the  Dunkard  by  luffing. 


Ill 

FUCKER 

A  RED  cow  sans  horns  was  grazing  at  the  side  of  the    » 
road-bed.     She  looked  up  at  the  train  familiarly. 

"  Flicker,"  said  Chuff,  affectionately. 

"  Yes ;  nossing  like  pastur'  airly  for  cows,"  remarked 
the  deaf  Dunkard. 

"No!"  shouted  Chuff. 

"She's  fat." 

"As  butter." 

"  How  much  ? " 

"  Twelve  pounds  a  week." 

It  was  always  easier  to  join  the  deaf  man's  misun 
derstanding  than  to  correct  him. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD    39 

The  Dunkard  took  out  his  pencil  and  figured. 

"  Sree  sixty  a  week !  "  (Three  thirty-two  was  the 
correct  arithmetic.)  "  You  '11  be  rich  next  you  know." 

He  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  An'  you  git  more  hay  fan  you  kin  feed,  I  year." 

"  Ten  tons  more." 

The  Dunkard  figured  again. 

"  Hunderd  an'  twenty  dollers  a  year."  (It  was  only 
a  hundred  and  two.) 

"Yes." 

"Goshens!" 

"Goot  hay,  too.  I  don't  squirt  no  steam  on  t'e 
grass." 

"  T'e  railroad  's  a  goot  sing  for  you." 

"  Yes.  I  got  a  farm  two  an'  a  half  mile  long  an' 
sirty-sree  feet  wide !  " 

The  railroad  man  looked  proudly  at  the  haycocks 
dotting  the  roadway. 

"  An'  it  don'  cost  you  nossing  to  haul  it." 

"  Not  a  cent." 

He  added : 

"  An'  I  cut  it  by  moonlight." 

"  Blinsinger  's  kicking  up  a  fuss,  too.  Says  you  're 
t'e  only  man  'at  's  making  any  money  out  of  t'e  road." 

At  this  Chuff  only  laughed. 

"  Well,  t'ey  kin  pay  me  a  selery  an'  take  t'e  hay," 
he  said,  laughing  recklessly. 

The  Dunkard,  whose  name  was  Eberhard  Drouse, 
now  asked : 

"  How  kin  a'  ingine  run  itself,  while  you  an'  me 
wisit?" 

"  Well,  she  can't.     Chust  she  an'  me  we  understand 


40    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

one  anot'er.     She  does  what  I  want.     An'  she  's  tied 
wiss  a  string." 

The  engine  gave  a  sigh. 

"What  7s  t'at?" 

Chuff  said  he  did  n't  know,  but  he  did.  He  has 
tened  to  get  Chill's  ticket.  Chill  pretended  to  have 
mislaid  it.  Chuff  stood  stoically  by.  The  engine 
sighed  again.  Then  there  was  one  long,  hopeless 
sigh,  and  she  stopped.  Still  Chill  searched  for  his 
ticket.  The  train  began  slowly  to  run  backward 
down  the  grade. 

"  Gife  up  your  ticket,"  shouted  Chuff,  "  or  I  '11  pitch 
you  off ! " 

Chill  suddenly  gave  it  up. 

"Mebbe  t'e  string  slipped,"  said  the  Dunkard,  in 
fear,  as  Chuff  flashed  past  him. 

Then,  in  panic,  he  hurried  back  to  Chill,  whom  he 
thought  uncannily  wise. 

He  put  one  end  of  his  trumpet  at  his  mouth  and 
the  other  into  Chill's  ear. 

"What 's  t'e  matter?"  he  shouted. 

Chill  shied  and  gently  reversed  the  machine. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  in  the  proper  end. 

The  Dunkard  kept  the  trumpet  in  his  own  ear  now, 
but  hovering  perilously  about  Chill's  face. 

"  Ain't  we  going  packvard  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Chill. 

"  T'at 's  not  nossing !  " 

"  Pretty  near  it.     Maybe  it 's  a  little  less." 

"  I  got  a  mind  to  chump  off !  " 

'•Don't  jump,"  said  Chill;  "walk." 

"It 's  no  danger?" 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD     41 

Chill  laughed  odiously. 

"  She  runs  better  backward  than  forward." 

" Young  man,"  said  the  Dunkard,  "do  not  scoff 
vhen  danger  is  nigh." 

The  thick-waisted  woman  was  standing  in  the  aisle, 
listening  for  their  wise  conclusion  of  the  matter,  ready 
to  fly  if  the  Dunkard  should.  She  had  forgotten  her 
apples. 

But  Chuff  had  put  on  the  hand-brake  and  stopped 
the  train.  Then  he  got  off  and  worked  for  a  while 
at  the  right  piston  with  a  monkey-wrench.  Presently 
the  sighing  of  the  escaping  steam  ceased.  The  train 
moved  forward. 

"  I  '11  show  Chill  a  sing  or  two,"  said  Chuff.  "  I  '11 
make  up  efery  minute  of  t'at  time." 

Not  on  that  up  grade,  but  on  the  next,  the  down 
grade.  The  momentum  of  the  train  was  frightful, 
its  rocking  perilous. 

The  Dunkard  again  became  panicky.  Again  the 
thick-waisted  woman  stood  in  the  aisle,  ready  to  fol 
low  him. 

"  Gosh ! "  gibed  Chill.     "  He  must  be  making  ten—" 

"  Ten !  "  gasped  the  Dunkard. 

"  Ten  miles." 

"  Ten  miles  ?"  cried  the  woman,  in  vague  horror. 

"An  hour!  Don't  you  know  anything?  Never 
mind.  It  won't  be  for  long.  She  '11  be  off  the  track 
in  a  minute." 

"  Off  t'e  track !  " 

The  two  other  passengers  cried  it  together.  The 
Dunkard  hurried  to  his  seat,  as  if  safety  were  there. 


42    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

He  held  on  desperately  with  hands  and  feet.  The 
thick-waisted  passenger  did  precisely  the  same  thing 
in  the  seat  just  behind  him. 

But  nothing  immediately  happened. 

"It  won't  hurt/'  shouted  Chill.  "She  does  it 
nearly  every  day.  She  's  a  lobster." 

They  did  not  understand  this.  The  Dunkard 
chided  Chill  in  a  shrill,  tragic  voice,  without  looking 
round  at  him : 

"Young  man,  you  shall  mend  your  vay.  I  haf 
trafeled  ofer  t'e  railroad  afore,  an'  she  has  not  gone 
off  t'e  track." 

To  show  his  faith  in  Chuff  and  his  engine  and  him 
self,  he  relaxed  his  hold.  The  woman  did  likewise. 

"  She  always  does  when  I  travel  on  her,"  said  Chill, 
with  melancholy. 

"It  iss  a  varning  unto  you,  young  man.  Mend 
your  vay." 

"  Chuff  'd  better  mend  his.  But,  when  he  does,  it 's 
on  Sunday.  That  7s  what  7s  doing  it—" 

At  that  moment  the  engine  left  the  rails.  Chill 
laughed.  The  Dunkard  flew  into  the  seat  in  front. 
The  apples  from  the  fat  woman's  basket  rolled  sud 
denly  forward,  then  backward,  along  the  aisle.  She 
had  heavily  subsided  to  the  floor. 

"  If  he  did  n't  hate  me  so  1 7d  go  out  and  help  to 
get  her  on,"  mused  Chill. 

"Why  does  he  hade  you?"  asked  the  Dunkard, 
rearranging  his  long  hair.  "  You  haf  told  t'e  truth. 
It  does  not  hurt." 

The  woman  remained  safely  on  the  floor. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD      43 

"  Because  I  know  more  about  his  old  lobster  than 
he  does." 

"  Twice  you  haf  spoke  t'at  strange  word.  I  under 
stand  it  to  be  a  fish.  By  what  similitute  do  you 
liken  Mr.  Chuff's  unhappy  ingine  unto  it?  Explain 
these." 

"  Oh,  she  7s  a  lobster— that  's  all.  You  see,  when 
1 7in  aboard  Chuff  tries  to  show  off.  Then  his  old 
crab  slips,  and  he  's  got  to  get  out  an'  put  her  on. 
That  's  not  so  hard,  though.  She  never  runs  a  foot 
after  she  goes  off.  She  only  weighs  a  ton  or  so.  I 
could  get  her  on  with  a  fence-rail.  Some  day  she  '11 
fall  apart.  She  's  a  lobster,  you  see." 

But  even  then  the  Dunkard  did  not  see. 

Chill  was  looking  out  of  the  window  at  Chuff.  He 
had  got  the  hand- jacks  out  of  the  cab,  and  was  put 
ting  the  engine  on  the  track  with  the  skill  of  long 
experience. 

"  If  he  does  get  her  off  he  can  get  her  on,  too,"  said 
Chill,  with  unwilling  admiration. 

The  train  reached  Schlafeplatz  without  further  in 
cident,  and  in  the  evening,  at  6  :  46,  it  started  back  to 
Strasburg,  reaching  there  as  usual.  The  distance  was 
two  and  a  half  miles. 

IV 

ERMENTRUDE 

THIS  was  on  the  30th  of  June.  On  the  Fourth  of 
July  Chuff  had  his  daughter  for  a  passenger.  And 


44     THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

again  the  melancholy  Hetherington  Chill  bought  a 
ticket.  He  raised  his  hat  surlily  to  the  girl,  and  then 
turned  his  back  on  her. 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  Chuff  to  his  daughter,  "  that  you  'f  e 
got  to  haf  him  for  company — " 

"  Company  !  "  gasped  his  daughter. 

Chuff  laughed  hugely. 

"  Oach  !  I  don'  mean  for  no  beau,"— he  grinned  at 
the  absurdity  of  it,  —  "chust  on  t'e  train.  But  he 
alwayss  sets  on  t'e  hind  seat,  an'  you  kin  set  on  t'e 
front,  an'  he  won't  bot'er  you— it  '11  be  sirty-sree  feet 
between  yous— chust— chust— he  '11  see  t'e  back  of 
you'  head.'7  He  laughed,  and  then  looked  at  it  him 
self.  "  Yit— t'at  's  wort'  looking  at— not  so,  Sis  ? " 

He  got  Chill's  ticket,  —which  the  young  man  surren 
dered  promptly,  to  Chuff's  disappointment,— and  then, 
as  he  passed  on  to  his  engine,  said  to  his  daughter : 

"  He  's  a  dam'  sing  !     Ain't  he,  Sis  ? " 

"  Yes,"  faintly  whispered  his  daughter. 

"  No  good  whatef  er !  " 

"No"— faintly. 

But  when  he  was  gone  she  went  back  to  the  melan 
choly  young  man,  and  kissed  him  and  said  she  loved 
him.  And  he  kissed  her  and  said  he  loved  her.  She 
sat  on  the  arm  of  his  seat,  where  she  could  see  the  cab 
of  the  engine.  He  put  his  arm  around  her,  watching 
the  cab  of  the  engine.  Having  done  this,  he  said 
again : 

"  I  love  you,  Sis." 

(But  her  name  was  Ermentrude.) 

"  More  'n  you  lof e  Pink  ? " 

This  was  sheer  subtlety. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD     45 

"  Yes.     I  've  loved  you  more  than  her  ever  since—" 

He  stopped  and  looked  away  reminiscently. 

"  Efer  since  I  changed  my  hair/7  sighed  Ermentrude, 
happily. 

This  referred  to  the  time,  the  summer  before,  when 
Ermentrude  had  made  her  first  trip  to  Schlafeplatz, 
and  had  seen  a  young  woman  at  the  hotel  altogether 
like  the  pictures  in  the  newspapers,  and  had  copied 
her. 

"  Poor  Pink  !  "  said  Ermentrude.  "  Mebbe  if  she  'd 
change  her  hair—" 

"  Never !  "  answered  Hetherington  Chill,  quite  as  she 
wished. 

She  kissed  him  again.  Then  she  saw  her  father 
coming  over  the  tender.  She  lingered  perilously 
while  he  changed  his  cap.  When  he  arrived,  however, 
Chill  was  whistling  sadly  out  of  the  window.  Ermen 
trude  was  inspecting  her  finger-tips. 

"Next  stop,  Schlafeplatz!"  said  Chuff.  "Passen 
gers  change  for  points  nort',  east,  sout',  an7  west ! " 
To  his  daughter  he  said  unofficially :  "  Sank  God !  he 
ain't  got  t'e  little  green  trunk.  If  I  had  to  gife  him 
a  check  to-day  I  7d  smack  him— t'e  vay  he  's  treated 
you ! " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  laughed. 

Chuff  laughed  too. 

And  Chill  laughed— when  Chuff  was  gone. 

"  Gosh !      If  he  had  seen  my  arm—" 

"  Sh-h-h ! "  whispered  Ermentrude. 

Chuff  changed  his  cap  once  more  and  returned  to 
his  engine. 

When  they  had  completely  arrived,  Chill  went  one 


46    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

way  and  Ermentrude  another.  But  each  passed  a  shop 
where  certain  frocks  were  displayed  in  the  window. 
Then  they  met  behind  the  fence  of  the  hotel. 

"  The  green  one/'  whispered  Chill,  watching  north 
ward. 

"Yes,  t'e  green  one,"  agreed  Ermentrude,  watching 
southward  and  eastward. 

The  fence  was  on  the  west. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her.     She  kissed  him. 

"If  he  had  n't  stopped  in  t'e  baggage-place  to  put 
on  his  conductor-cap—77 

Chill  laughed  sardonically  to  Ermentrude. 

"  We  'd  been  ketched." 

This  referred  to  the  last  exchange  of  caresses  as 
they  had  left  the  train. 

"  An'  you  might  be— dead !  " 

"  Mebbe,"  doubted  Chill. 

She  kissed  him  again.     Then  they  flew  apart. 

"  lie  's  shut  off  steam !  "  whispered  she. 

"  He 's  got  to  shut  off  a  lot  of  other  things  yet.  No 
hurry,"  answered  Chill,  bravely. 

But  Ermentrude  would  not  take  the  risk  of  further 
delay  behind  the  fence  of  the  hotel. 

She  took  Chuff  to  the  same  store. 

"  She  gits  whatefer  she  wants,  Sis  does,"  said  Chuff. 
"But  t'is— say,  can't  you  make  it  four  ninety- 
eight?" 

The  saleswoman  briefly  refused  to  do  this. 

Chuff  decided  to  take  it.  But  he  did  not  have  the 
money.  He  proposed  to  hypothecate  his  hay  and 
butter.  The  saleswoman  called  in  the  proprietor. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  EAILROAD    47 

He  looked  at  the  dress.  It  was  faded  down  the  front 
where  the  sun  had  shone  on  it. 

"I  ain't  got  no  money,"  laughed  Chuff,  happily, 
"  but  I  got  hay  and  butter  a-plenty.  My  Sis  gits 
whatefer  she  wants,  efen  if—" 

"  1 11  take  your  hay  and  butter,"  said  the  merchant, 
hastily. 

Chuff  gave  him  a  promissory  note  for  it,  to  be  paid 
in  butter  and  eggs  or  money. 

Then,  since  it  was  so  easy,  Ermentrude  suggested 
a  line  of  lingerie,  and  things  which,  at  another  time, 
would  have  bankrupted  Chuff.  But  to-day  it  was 
excessively  easy.  He  bought  everything  she  wished, 
and  gave  another  and  very  much  larger  promissory 
note.  When  they  left  the  store  Chuff  was  laughing. 

On  the  way  home  Chill  whistled  very  sadly  out  of  the 
window.  Ermentrude  looked,  smiling  happily,  at  her 
pink  finger-tips.  Chuff  was  thinking. 

"  Say,"  he  said  to  his  daughter,  "  I  guess  I  'm  a  little 
skeered.  I  nefer  gafe  no  promissory  note  afore. 
It 's  got  to  be  paid— sometime?" 

Ermentrude  did  not  know. 

"  An'  chust  suppose  Flicker  should  go  dry  ?     Gosh  !  " 

The  engine  began  to  slow  down,  and  Chuff,  much 
depressed,  hurried  over  the  tender  and  pulled  the  lever. 

Ermentrude  went  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  Chill's  seat. 

"  Ain't  it  lof ely !  »  she  said  callously. 

Chill  sadly  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  but  I  like  t'at !  "  said  the  girl. 

"Why?"  asked  Chill. 

" I  mostly  got  to  kiss  you" 


48    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

"  Oh !  »  said  ChiU. 

"  I  got  eferysing  I  wanted." 

"  You  all  ready?" 

"  An'  some  sings  I  did  n't  ast  for." 

"  You  aU  ready  f  " 

"Oh— yes!" 

"Well?" 

"  An'  it 's  too  late  to  make  me  take  'em  back.  I  got 
;em  on  t'e  train  !  Yere !  T'e  note  won't  git  due  for 
sirty  days,  you  know,  an'  afore  t'at  we  '11— be—  She 
sighed  happily. 

"  Too  late,"  agreed  Chill,  happily. 

Now,  the  Pink  of  whom  Chill  and  Ermentrude  had 
spoken  was  a  Miss  Pestifer  to  whom  Chill's  affections 
had  been  somewhat  engaged  before  Ermentrude 
changed  her  hair.  When  she  heard  of  the  green 
frock,  Pink  at  first  cried,  then  reflected,  then  watched. 
Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned. 


BLINSINGER 

ONE  day,  when  the  train  arrived,  Chuff  observed  some 
thing  posted  on  the  brick  part  of  the  barn  where  the 
ticket-office  was : 

NOTICE 

To  THE  EMPLOYEE  OF  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 
From  this  date  it  is  ordered  by  the  President  and  Board 
of  Directors  of  the  Schlaf  eplatz  Railroad  that  no  cows  or 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD    49 

other  domestic  cattle  shall  be  allowed  to  graze  on  pasture 
on  the  road-bed  of  the  said  railroad,  the  said  grazing  on 
said  pasturing  being  dangerous  to  both  the  said  domestic 
animals  and  the  rolling-stock  of  the  said  company.  Also 
that  the  hay  growing  thereon  is  the  property  of  the  said 
company  and  to  be  cut,  cured,  and  sold  as  such,  and  the 
receipt  therefrom  accounted  for  to  the  company  by  its  em 
ployee.  By  order  of  the  Board, 

B.  BLINSINGER, 

President. 

For  a  moment  Chuff  was  stunned.  Then  he  put  on  his 
civilian  clothing  and  went  to  see  President  Blinsinger. 

"What  in  sunder  does  it  mean?"  demanded  Chuff, 
savagely. 

"Mean!" 

It  was  all  he  asked. 

"  Chust  what  it  says,"  answered  Blinsinger,  stiffly. 

Chuff  did  n't  believe  it,  even  then. 

"  We  haf  sold  t'e  hay  a'ready  cut.  Haul  it  to  Brinker's 
varehouse  to-morrow.  You  '11  git  a  selery.  You  un 
derstand  ? " 

Chuff  said  lie  did,  but  he  did  n't.  On  the  way  home 
he  said  only : 

"  T'at  promissory  note !  Sunder!  Selery!  Light 
ning  !  Hay !  Dam' !  " 

That  night  Chuff,  without  the  assistance  of  Ermen- 
trude,  who  nearly  always  did  what  might  be  called  the 
lighter  literary  duties  that  fell  to  him  as  the  employee 
of  the  railroad,  composed  a  letter  to  the  president  and 
board  of  directors. 

There  was  no  honorary  opening  or  closing.  It 
plunged  in  the  middle : 


50      THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

For  thirty-seven  year  I  haf  ben  the  employee  you  men 
tion.  I  took  your  old  goat  of  a  ingine  when  she  was  new 
and  growed  up  with  her.  I  mended  the  road-bed  on  Sun 
days  when  you  went  to  church  and  praid.  You  nefer  put 
a  cent  in  her  since.  The  tracks  is  held  down  with  stakes 
and  fence-rails  which  I  found  an  put  in  myself.  The  ingine 
is  held  together  with  wires  and  strings  which  you  nefer  paid 
for.  The  only  selery  you  efer  pay  me  was  the  hay  an  the 
pastur.  The  only  trouble  we  efer  had  was  ofer  a  Canadian 
ten-cent  pice  which  I  tuck  in  and  I  made  that  good  with 
one  of  my  own.  Well  you  kin  go  to  hell.  The  first  man 
at  runs  that  ingine  '11  git  blowed  up.  She  wont  stand  no 
one  but  me.  An  he  wont  understand  the  wires  an  strings. 
And  I  wont  run  her  no  more  till  I  git  the  hay  and  pastur 
back.  I  growed  up  with  her  he  dident.  An  you  kin  keep 
your  hay  an  111  keep  my  cow.  You  are  hereby  notified  that 
I  Hannikin  Chuff  have  struck. 

The  next  morning  the  placard  of  the  company  had 
beside  it  one  done  in  a  bolder  hand,  on  stiffer  paper : 

STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD!!!!! 

The  Community  is  hereby  notified  that  the  Employee  of 
the  Schlafeplatz  Railroad  has  Struck ! 

HANNIKIN  CHUFF, 

Employee. 

So  the  train  did  not  leave  the  next  morning;  the 
engine  was  cold,  the  ticket-office  was  closed,  the  hay 
rotted  in  its  cocks.  And,  as  the  days  went  by,  Stras- 
burg  desperately  felt  the  strike.  Eggs  could  be  had 
for  the  asking.  Butter  was  not  worth  the  making. 
Milk  was  milked  and  poured  out  on  the  ground,  for 
the  well-being  of  the  cows.  At  first  Chuff  stalked 
among  them  like  an  avenging  god ;  then  he  stayed  at 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD  51 

home  and  cut  the  grass  in  his  yard  closer  and  closer 
for  Flicker.  From  time  to  time  those  who  owned 
cows  or  chickens  (some  owned  both,  and  upon  these 
the  rigors  of  the  strike  fell  with  greatest  severity) 
would  create  committees  to  call  upon  Chuff  with  a 
view  to  compromising  the  affair.  President  Blinsinger 
was  always  ready  to  be  approached.  Chuff  was  iron. 
To  all  overtures  he  replied : 

"  T'e  pastur',  t'e  hay,  or  nossing !  " 

Presently  a  rumor  prevailed  that  the  company  had 
approached  Hetherington  Chill  with  a  proposition. 
That  night  Chuff  stuffed  the  safety-valve  with  soft 
paper. 

"  It  '11  blow  him  to  hell  t'e  first  time ! "  said  Chuff, 
as  he  stole  away  in  the  darkness. 

And  at  this  Chuff  had  an  unholy  thrill  j  for  he  hated 
the  wordless  Chill. 

But  Chill's  answer  to  them  who  seduced  him  was : 

"  Say,  I  ain't  no  blank  scab  !  " 

It  was  some  time  before  any  one  learned  what  a 
"  blank  scab  "  was.  Then  they  remembered  that  Chill 
had  been  in  the  railroad  strike  at  Schlaf  eplatz,  had  lost 
his  job,  had  come  to  live  in  retirement  at  Strasburg. 

Chuff  was  disappointed.  He  had  hoped  that  Chill 
would  try  to  run  the  engine.  He  still  hoped  this  as 
he  grew  more  morbid  and  savage.  Not  only  did  he 
not  remove  the  soft  paper :  he  put  more  in,  and  stuffed 
it  harder. 

Later  a  collector  knocked  at  Chuff's  door.  He  had 
the  two  promissory  notes. 

"  *  Misfortunes  nefer  come  single,' "  quoted  Chuff. 


52     THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

"  We  thought  it  was  for  a  wedding/7  grinned  the  col 
lector,  misunderstandingly. 

"  What  wass  for  a  wedding  ?    Who  ? " 

"  Why,  the  things  you  bought." 

"What  t'e  tefil  you  talking  about?" 

"Well,  were  n't  they?" 

"  T'ey  wass  for  my  Sis,  an'  none  too  good  for  her 
t'en,  no  matter  what 's  happened  since." 

"Did  n't  she  get  married  in  'em ? " 

"No." 

"  Maybe  it  is  n't  the  time  yet  ? " 

"  I  guess  not.  You  crazy.  My  Sis  don't  sink  no 
more  about  gitting  merried  fan  you  do." 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  about  it,"  said  the  man,  smiling. 

"I  expect  not,"  sneered  Chuff,  inhospitably,  as  if 
he  had  said  that  no  woman  would  have  him. 

"  I  am  married."     He  smiled  again. 

Chuff  was  put  out  for  only  an  instant. 

"  I  sorry  for  t'e  woman." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  grinned  the  amiable  collector, 
ft  those  are  the  things  we  usually  sell  for  brides.  I 
only  thought—" 

"Stop  sinking.  Take  anysing  you  kin  lay  you' 
hands  on.  I  ain't  got  no  money,  nor  no  hay  nor 
butter.  T'at  's  what  I  wass  to  pay  in.  I  'fe  mowed 
t'e  roots  of  t'e  grass  out.  An'  I  'f  e  struck.  You  want 
ol'  Flicker  ?  I  expected  to  put  t'e  hay  in  one  end  of 
her  an'  git  t'e  butter  out  t'e  ot'er.  Take  her  an'  do 
it  yourself,"  said  Chuff,  desperately. 

The  collector  said  he  did  not  want  Flicker.  He 
knew  nothing  about  the  process  of  turning  hay  into 
butter  by  putting  it  through  her. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD    53 

There  was  some  more  Chuffing,  as  it  was  called  in 
that  vicinity,  and  the  collector  went  away  threatening 
Chuff  with  jail. 

Chuff  said  he  did  n't  care.  But  he  did,  mightily. 
Now,  also,  his  memory  worked  while  he  slept.  He  had 
never  been  in  jail.  He  fancied  it  much  worse  than 
it  is. 


VI 

PINK 

PINK  PESTIFER  watched  her  recreant  lover.  One 
night  she  followed  him  to  the  lifeless  engine.  It  was 
opaquely  dark,  but  she  could  vaguely  hear  him  famil 
iarizing  himself  with  its  machinery.  She  did  not 
know  what  it  meant.  But  night  after  night  the 
strange  performance  went  on.  Then,  one  night,  she 
saw  a  slender  figure  in  a  green  dress  with  him.  She 
crept  up  and  listened. 

She  heard  Chill  ask : 

"  Which  is  the  reverser  ?    It 's  too  dark  to—" 

"Yere;  an'  t'is  is  t'e-" 

So  it  went  on.  Hard  as  it  was  to  believe,  Ermen- 
trude  was  instructing  Chill  in  the  management  of  the 
sleeping  machine.  Ermentrude !  Pink  understood 
the  mystery  of  the  green  dress  now. 

She  started  for  Chuff's  house.     But  it  was  a  mile. 

"Mr.  Chuff,"  she  gasped,  " Ermentrude —Chill—" 

Chuff  jumped  into  his  clothes. 

"Ermentrude  Chill !  "  he  shouted. 


54    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD 

"  T'at  's  what  she  '11  be  unless  you  get  t'ere  sooner  n  j 
and  Miss  Pestifer  laughed  hysterically. 

Chuff  was  already  in  his  daughter's  room.  He 
lighted  a  lamp.  The  bed  had  not  been  slept  in.  Her 
clothing  was  gone— the  dress,  all  the  lingerie  he  had 
given  his  note— his  more  than  all— for ! 

Pink  Pestifer  was  at  his  side  by  this  time. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried  j  "  it  was  a  trosseau." 

"What  's  t'at?"  demanded  Chuff,  fiercely.  "T'is 
is  no  time  to  be  highf  alutin !  " 

"  Wedding-sings,"  said  Pink. 

"  Oach !  you  lie  !  "  said  Chuff.  But  he  remembered 
what  the  collector  had  said. 

"  T'ey  're  starting  up  t'e  ingine.  I  saw  'em.  She  's 
showing  him  how.  You  showed  her—" 

But  Chuff  did  not  heed  her.  He  had  found  the  note. 
It  said: 

Forgive  me,  dear  father.  I  love  him  so.  I  go  from 
your  arms  to  hisn. 

"  You7  daddy  has  a  horse,"  cried  Chuff.  "  Git  him 
—quick ! " 

As  she  was  going,  Chuff  said  again : 
"  An'  his  army  pistol !  " 

She  brought  the  horse,  but  not  the  pistol.  She  did 
not  want  Chill  killed. 

At  parting  Chuff  said : 

"Say,  you  keep  still  about  t'at— t'at— tros— t'at 
trosser.  It  can't  be  so.  My  Sis  would  n't—  Gosh-a- 
mighty !  Trosser !  " 

He  was  off. 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD    55 

VII 

FINIS 

THE  engine  was  gone.  He  could  neither  see  nor  hear 
them.  He  dug  both  heels  into  the  ribs  of  Pestifer's 
surprised  horse.  The  moon  rose  rapidly— dim  and 
full  and  ominous.  After  a  mile  he  had  them  in  sight. 
He  heard  the  sighing  of  escaping  steam  that  he  knew 
so  well  and  rejoiced  in  it  for  the  first  time.  Presently 
he  could  see  Chill  frenziedly  at  work  with  the  monkey- 
wrench.  Ermentrude,  with  the  sleeves  of  the  green 
dress  recklessly  tucked  up,  was  helping,  directing,  as 
he  himself  might  have  done. 

"  Open  t'e  safety- waive !  " 

Chuff  shouted  it  till  he  was  too  hoarse  to  shout  any 
more.  But  they  did  not  hear  him,  and  saw  him  only 
as  a  menace.  And  if  they  should  succeed  in  stopping 
the  escape  at  the  right  piston ! 

"  It  's  stuffed !  "  he  yelled  again. 

The  sighing  of  the  steam  ceased.  The  engine 
moved.  Chuff  groaned.  If  Chill  had  learned  how  to 
run  her  he  could  beat  Pestifer's  horse,  that  was  cer 
tain.  Especially  was  this  the  case  with  the  safety- 
valve  stuffed  and  the  leak  in  the  piston  closed. 

And  Chill  was  pleasantly  waving  his  hand  as  the 
engine  pulled  away  from  him ! 

"Say— I  don'  keer!  Do  whatefer  you7  up  to. 
Chust— chust—  T'e  safety-waive  is  stuffed !  She  '11 
bust !  You  '11  git  killed-mebbe !  " 


56    THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  EAILROAD 

So  it  was  formulated  in  his  mind ;  but  lie  could  not 
say  it.  He  lacked  breath. 

They  were  on  even  terms  for  the  next  half-mile,  and 
Chuff  began  to  hope.  Then  they  cut  off  the  passenger- 
car  and  pulled  away  from  him.  Down  the  next  grade 
they  gained,  too.  But,  as  he  knew,  the  coming  up 
grade  would  take  all  their  steam.  Again  he  had  them 
almost  within  calling  distance.  They  cut  the  tender. 
He  could  see  the  green  dress  fluttering  in  the  cab. 
The  moon  cleared  her  face  as  if  to  help  him.  He 
could  see  Sis  putting  their  last  wood  into  the  furnace. 
Once  more  they  were  gaining,  though  on  the  heaviest 
up-grade  on  the  road.  They  must  be  carrying  over  a 
hundred  pounds  of  steam.  Ninety  pounds  was  the 
extreme  limit.  They  were  disappearing,  and  Pestif  er's 
horse  was  done  for ! 

Then  the  end  came.  There  was  a  sudden  wild  shriek, 
—woman  or  engine  or  both,— and  Chuff  saw  the 
smoke-stack  languidly  mount  the  air. 

When  Chuff  arrived,  the  engine  was  still  breathing, 
like  some  dying  thing,  through  two  ragged  holes  near 
the  place  of  the  smoke-stack.  A  ruffle  of  the  green 
dress  restrained  the  reversing-lever,  as  his  twine  had 
been  wont  to  do  while  he  collected  the  tickets.  But 
Hetherington  Chill  and  Ermentrude  Chuff  were  no 
where  to  be  seen. 

Chuff  searched  about  madly.  There  was  nothing  but 
that  shred  of  pale  green  on  the  reversing-lever.  He 
circled  the  prone  machine  for  some  possible  thing 
which  one  might  drop  in  a  hurried  flight  through  the 


THE  STRIKE  ON  THE  SCHLAFEPLATZ  RAILROAD    57 

air.  Nothing.  He  lengthened  the  radius  of  his  quest. 
Pestifer's  horse  lay  weakly  down  against  the  nearest 
fence. 

The  rising  sun  found  Chuff  a  mile  from  the  dead 
engine,  still  fruitlessly  searching  in  an  ever- widening 
circle. 


tt 


OUR  ANCHEL" 


"OUR  ANCHEL 


DAISY  WISHED  I  WAS  A  COPPERHEAD 

I  DON'T  know  for  why  t'e  women  took  such  a'  in 
terest  in  t'e  war.  Pennsylf  any  women  don't  bot'er 
much  about  things  outside  t'e  house.  Mebbe  it  wass  be- 
causs  they  lifed  on  t'e  border,  where  it  wass  all  t'e  time 
so  much  red-hot  talk.  Of  course  it  wass  lots  of  women 
t'at  had  no  opinion  one  way  or  t'e  ot'er,  an'  did  n't  keer 
for  none— chust  went  t'e  way  t'e  men-folks  of  t'e  family 
did.  But  Daisy  had  an  opinion  of  her  own  from  t'e 
start.  Eferybody  expected  her  to  be  a  rebel,  account 
all  her  folks  lifed  down  in  Dixie.  An'  she  did  n't  dis- 
app'int  them.  All  t'e  ot'er  girls  in  town  wass  Union,  an? 
when  they  found  out  t'at  Daisy  wass  a  rebel  they  called 
her  Copperhead  an'  stopped  going  with  her. 

Daisy  did  n't  mind  much.  All  she  ast  wass  t'at 
Harold  an'  me  should  stick  to  her— she  did  n't  keer 
for  t'e  rest.  Well,  it  did  n't  take  much  persuading  for 
t'at.  Anyhow,  I  expect  it  wass  more  jealousy  than 
paterotism  with  t'e  ot'er  girls,  for  Daisy  wass  enough 
sight  pootier  than  any  of  'em— yes,  all  of  'em  toget'er ! 
An'  beaux  wass  skerce  on  t'e  border  in  1862.  But  it 

61 


62  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

made  Daisy  a  little  sorry  when  it  got  so  bad  t'at  t'ey 
would  n't  speak  to  her  on  t'e  street  no  more,— you  could 
see  t'at,— for  she  wass  friendly  with  eferybody,  an'  so 
she  said  t'at  Hal  an'  me  must  like  her  all  t'e  more  to 
make  up  for  t'e  rest.  An'  it  did  n't  require  much  per 
suading  for  t'at,  neit'er.  She  wass  one  of  them  girls 
t'at  a  feller  ken  nefer  like  too  much.  Not  only  ac 
count  her  beauty,  but  also  her  nice  affectionate  an' 
lifely  ways. 

Of  course  it 's  some  t'at  don't  like  such  yeller  hair,  an' 
blue  eyes,  an'  white  teeth  showing  all  t'e  time  account 
she  wass  nearly  always  laughing.  But  Hal  an'  me 
liked  it  an'  no  mistake.  I  guess  she  knowed  it,  too. 

But  when  t'e  war  come  on,  an'  her  Sout'ern  relations 
got  going  in  an'  gitting  killed,  she  did  n't  show  her 
teeth  so  much  no  more,  an'  got  a  kind  of  a  sad  look 
on  her  face. 

Hal  an'  me  chust  kep'  on  courting  her,  not  knowing 
which  wass  t'e  best  man  an'  afraid  to  find  out.  Daisy 
thought  it  wass  account  of  being  sorry  for  one  anot'er. 
It  wass  becauss  we  wass  afraid  of  one  anot'er.  Yes, 
we  'd  go  toget'er  an'  leafe  toget'er,  an'  watch  one 
anot'er  like  cats,  an'  I  don't  belief e  Daisy  knowed  her 
self  which  she  liked  best.  I  got  to  acknowledge  t'at 
Hal  wass  t'e  best-looking  an'  had  t'e  best  manners,  an' 
wass  a  Copperhead,  yit— which  suited  Daisy  best  of 
all.  But  I  had  knowed  her  t'e  longest,  an'  had  t'e  start 
of  Hal  a  little.  Yit  if  I  'd  'a'  been  Daisy  I  'd  'a'  liked 
Hal  best,  an'  I  nefer  blamed  her  for  doing  it— if  she 
did.  /  liked  him  better  'an  any  one  I  ef  er  knowed. 
A  fact,  I  did.  He  wass  one  them  proud,  quiet,  gen 
tlemanly  kind  of  fellers  with  black  hair  an'  eyes.  Me— 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  63 

I  wass  chust  a  rough,  Dutch  towhead.  Lots  of  'em 
about.  Yit— I  don't  like  to  say  it— I  thought  Daisy 
would  'a'  liked  me  best  if  I  'd  been  a  Copperhead.  An7, 
be  goshens  !  I  wass  so  deep  in  lof  e  with  her  t'at  I  'd  'a' 
turned  my  coat  in  no  time— if  she  'd  'a'  let  me. 

"Bob,"  she  says  onct  while  I  wass  carrying  her 
acrosst  a  crick,  "  I  wisht  you  wass  a  Copperhead." 

"Why!"  last  her. 

"  Oh,  account  I  like  you  so  much  now.  1 'd  like  to 
like  you  more." 

"  I 'd  do  a  good  bit  to  be  liked  a  little  more  by  you, 
Daisy,"  I  says. 

"Would  you  r'ally?"  she  ast. 

"  Yes,"  I  says.  "  To-morrow  you  '11  see  me  with  a 
Copperhead  breastpin.  I  '11  turn  my  coat  to-night— 
soon  as  it  gits  dark." 

"  For  me  ?  "  she  ast. 

"  Yes,  for  you,"  I  says,  thinking  t'at  would  please 
her. 

"  I  'd  hate  you  then,"  she  says,  hard  as  iorn.  "  Lem 
me  down." 

"  Hate  me  ?  "  I  says,  kind  of  dizzy. 

"  Yes,  hate  you !  Hal  ain't  t'at  kind  *a  Copper 
head.  He  beliefes  in  it." 

"  Daisy—"  I  begun  to  say. 

"  Lem  me  down  !  "  she  says,  twisting  out  of  my  arms, 
turning  her  back  on  me,  an'  splashing  out  of  t'e  crick. 

I  did  n't  see  her  for  about  a  week.  She  kep'  out  of 
my  way.  An'  Hal  he  looked  kind  of  sheepish  too.  An' 
then  when  I  did  see  her  she  wass  going  to  pass  me  with 
out  a  word.  I  chust  naturally  stopped  her. 

"  Daisy,  I  don't  belief  e  in  it,  an'  I  ain't  a-going  to  be 


64  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

no  Copperhead.  But  I  beliefe  in  you.  For  why  you 
turn  your  back  on  me—" 

"  Yes,  yes/7  she  says,  kind  of  sorrowful.  "  No  matter 
what  you  air,  we  shill  alwayss  be  good  friends."., 

It  was  something  funny  in  her  voice. 

"  Friends  1 "  says  I. 

"  Friends,"  says  she,  with  her  head  hanging.  "  But 
oh,  such  good  friends— such  good  friends,  dear  Bob  !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  says  j  "  I  understand,  I  expect." 

"  Yes,"  she  says  uneasy. 

"  T'at  's  why  you  did  n't  want  me  for  no  Copperhead, 
hah  ?  You  got  one  an7  had  no  use  for  anot'er." 

"No,"  she  says;  "it  had  n't  taken  place  then." 

"  Taken  place  ? "  I  says.     "  What  you  mean  ? " 

"I  thought  you  knowed.  You  said  you  under 
stood,"  she  says,  gitting  pale  as  t'e  moon. 

I  ketched  her  by  t'e  arm— so  rough  t'at  I  seen  her 
face  show  t'e  pain. 

"  Look-a  yere,"  I  says  j  "  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
t'at  you  're  ingaged  with  him— an'— an'— nefer  toP 
me?" 

She  chust  hung  her  head. 

"  Well— yereafter,"  I  went  on,  "  I  want  both  you  an' 
Hal  to  understand  t'at  it 's  no  quarter  with  me.  I  been 
fair  an'  square  all  along,  but  you  stabbed  me  in  t'e 
back,  both  of  yous.  Yes !  An'  when  my  turn  comes 
I  '11  do  some  of  t'at  myself." 

She  ketched  me  by  t'e  arm  before  I  could  git  away. 

"Bob-Bob-" 

T'at  was  all  she  could  say.  But  I  seen  her  heart 
thumping— an'  it  wass  all  over  with  me  onct  more. 
She  saw  that,  too. 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  65 

"Hal  is— square;  but  I— I  ain't,"  she  says. 
"Blame  me.  I  ast  him  to  ast  me— t'e  day  you  made 
me  so  mad.  He  did  n't  want  to.  He  said  he  ought 
to  tell  you  first.  But  I  made  him.  Bob,  1 7m  sorry- 
sorry— you— made  me  mad  t'at— day." 

She  begun  to  cry  a  little. 

"  Nefer  mind,"  says  I ;  "  next  to  me  he  ?s  tfe  best 
feller  in  t'e  whole  world." 

"  Yes,"  she  says. 

Then  I  laughed— not  a  funny  laugh,  I  ken  tell  you. 

"  I  expect  you  chust  fooling  now." 

"  Excuse  me ;  I  >m  out  of  it,"  says  I.     "  Good-by." 

"Bob,"  she  says,  ketching  holt  my  arm,  "you  not 
mad  at  me  ? " 

"No,"  says  I.  "I  ought  'a'  knowed  how  it  wass 
going  to  go.  I  'm  nobody ;  I  got  no  feelings  !  " 

"Bob,  if  we  should  git  married  sometime— oh, 
long  after  this— you  won't  stay  away  from  me,  will 
you?" 

"Let 's  talk  about  something  else,"  says  I.  "You 
asting  me  to  haf '  fun  at  my  own  funeral." 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  an'  walks  away  with  her  han'ker- 
cher  to  her  eyes. 

I  kep'  away  from  both  for  a  little.  You  know  how 
things  wears  off  after  a  while,  but  t'at  wass  hard  work. 
Both  of  them  wass  so  lofely ! 

An'  soon  it  got  pooty  much  as  before.  Both  of  us 
hanging  round  Daisy  ag'in — only  with  me  it  wass  dif 
ferent  now.  I  wass  kind  of  reckless,  an'  had  a  grudge 
against  Hal  t'at  I  could  n't  git  shut  of. 

"  Say,  why  don't  you  fellers  go  an'  fight  ? "  Daisy  says 
one  day.  "  I  ;m  tired  of  sass." 


66  "OUK  ANCHEL" 

"  All  right,"  says  I ;  "  come  along,  Hal." 

But  she  looked  frightened  then,  an'  I  seen  t'at  she 
wass  sorry  she  'd  said  t'at. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  each  ot'er,"  she  says. 

"  Oh  !  "  says  I. 

"I  've  been  thinking  about  it,"  says  Hal,  kind  of 
ser'ous.  "  I  '11  go  with  you,  Bob." 

I  could  see  Daisy  trimble. 

"  Well,  you  kin  chust  stop  thinking  about  it,  Hal," 
says  I.  ''Daisy  did  n't  mean  you— chust  mej  an'  I 
ain't  going,  an'  you  got  a  better  job." 

"  What  'st'aU"  Hal  ast. 

"  Making  lofe  to  a  girl  I  'm  acquainted  of." 

"  Oh  !  "  says  Hal,  with  a  nice  smile  to  Daisy.  Hal 
wass  n't  so  quick  to  see  a  joke  as  most  people. 

"  If  you  go  I  '11  take  your  job.  You  got  fair  warn 
ing,"  I  says. 

"  You  '11  nefer  git  Hal's  job !  "  says  Daisy. 

"  You  too  bloodthirsty  for  me.  Talk  to  Hal.  He  '11 
do  whatef er  you  ast  him  to,"  says  I. 

"  Efery  man  in  Maryland  t'at  kin  carry  a  gun  is  out 
fighting,  they  say,  an'  I  'm  chust  a-keeping  you  two 
yere  to— to— " 

"  To  what  ? "  I  ast  her.     "  Out  with  it ! " 

She  laughed  an'  slapped  me. 

"  Chust  to  have  you  both— about}1 

u  Oh,"  says  I,  "  is  t'at  all  ?    I  expected  something—" 

"  T'e  Brenizer  girls  says  you  're  both  af  eared— or  I  'm 
af  eared— or  somebody  's  af  eared— " 

"  Well,  you  ken  tell  them  for  me  t'at  they  're  right. 
I  ain't  anxious  to  git  shot  full  of  holes  an'  have  t'e 
wind  blowing  through  an'  through  me  when  cold 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  67 

weather  comes— nossir.  Hal,  why  don't  you  git  up  an' 
go,  an'  get  yourself  wentilated  ? " 

Hal  chust  smiled  an'  said  nothing. 

On  t'e  way  home  I  says  : 

"Hal,  you  got  to  go.  She  says  so,  an'  she  owns 
you ;  so  git  along." 

"  Daisy  's  right,"  says  Hal.     "  We  got  to  go." 

"  We  f  Like  hell !  "  says  I.  "  Daisy  don't  own  me— 
not  by  a  long  shot." 

"Well,"  says  Hal,  "I  'm  going." 

"  Well,"  I  says,  "  go  an'  be  durned  to  you— if  you 
got  to  be  a  fool— for  a  woman.  She  11  forgit  you  in 
a  month." 

"  It 's  my  duty,"  says  he. 

"Who  to?    Jeff  Davis?" 

"Daisy." 

I  chust  laughed. 

"  How  do  you  make  t'at  out  ? "  I  ast  him. 

"  People  's  talking  about  her." 

"  I  know.     But  what  differ  does  t'at  make  ? "  says  I. 

"  Mebbe  you  don't  know  what  it  is  ? " 

"T'at  she  's  a  Copperhead?  It  's  chust  with  her 
mouth,"  says  I. 

"  Is  t'at  all  you  'f e  heared  ? "  ast  Hal. 

"  Yes,"  I  says ;  "an'  she  don't  keer,  an'  I  don't  keer, 
an'  you  don't  need  to  keer.  She  's  yourn.  But  I  ex 
pect  you  will  keer— account  of  her— like  any  ot'er  fool." 

"  It 's  something  else,"  says  Hal.  "  They  don't  say 
it  to  you,  I  expect." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "what  t'e  hell  is  it?  Try  an'  not 
behafe  like  a  fool,  if  you  air  one." 

We  walked  on  awhile,  an'  then  he  come  up  clost  to 


68  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

my  ear  an'  kind  of  whispered— like  lie  was  af eared  to 
talk  out  loud : 

"  They  say  t'at  she  's  af  eared  to  send  one  of  us  un 
less  she  sends  us  both." 

"For  why?"  I  ast  him,  not  understanding. 

"  Don't  you  see  ? " 

"No,  I  don't,"  says  I. 

"  She  don't  know  which  of  us  she  likes  best,  they 
say,  an'  she 's  af  eared  to  be  left  alone  with  t'e  ot'er  one 
for  fear—" 

I  laughed  out  loud. 

"  But  you  're  ingaged  to  her !  "  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  Hal,  kind  of  sheepish;  then,  "They 
also  say  t'at  we  're  af  eared— of — each  ot'er." 

I  did  n't  say  a  word— chust  kep'  on  laughing  to 
myself. 

We  walked  on  yit  f urt'er,  an'  then  Hal  says : 

"Bob,  you  going?" 

I  laughed  out  loud  ag'in. 

"  Well,  I  guess  not— now?  says  I.  "  I  'm  a-going  to 
stay  right  yere  an'  show  'em  t'at  she  ain't  afeared  of 
me  an'  t'at  I  ain't  afeared  of  you." 

I  stopped  to  laugh  ag'in. 

"  Nossir !  I  'm  a-going  to  stay  right  yere  an'  show 
'em — efery  man,  woman,  an'  child — t'at  it — " 

"  Ain't  so  ? "  ast  Hal,  kind  of  breathless. 

"  T'at  it 's  so,"  says  I,  still  laughing. 

"All  right,"  says  Hal,  very  sorrowful. 

We  walked  on  ag'in,  an'  I  begun  to  feel  a  little 
mean. 

"  Hal,"  I  says,  "  you  better  stay  at  home  an'  pertect 
your  property." 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  69 

"No,"  he  says;  "I  'm  going.'7 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  will,"  says  I.     "  On  which  side  ? n 

He  wass  kind  of  looking  ahead,  an'  I  had  to  repeat  it. 

"  Daisy's  side— Daisy's  side,"  says  he. 

"  I  'm  talking  about— war,"  I  yells,  "  not  lofe— dam? 
you ! " 

"  Oh,"  says  he,  ashamed.     "  Confederate." 

"  U-hu,"  I  says ;  "  I  'm  sorry." 

"  Nefer  mind  t'at,"  says  Hal. 

"  Say,  if  you  take  t'e  ot'er  side  I  '11  go  with  you," 
says  I.  "  Let 's  see  if  you  Tten  disobey  Daisy  an'  do 
t'e  right  thing." 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  says  Hal ;  "  it 's  a  principle  at  stake 
—an'  I  might  as  well  say  good-by.  You  're  not 
ser'ous  to-night.  I  'm  going  airly  to-morrow  morn 
ing." 

"An  right,"  I  says. 

We  stopped  an'  shook  hands. 

"Bob,"  he  says,  "you  '11  play  fair?" 

"What  you  talking  about?"  says  I.  "Ain't  J 
always  played  fair?  What  business  you  got  to  ast 
t'at  of  me  ?  I  '11  play  chust  like  I  please." 

He  seemed  very  'umble  for  a  minute  or  two,  an' 
kep'  on  kicking  up  t'e  dirt. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  "  mebbe  t'at  wass  n't  quite  fair. 
She  gev'  me  t'e  chance,  an'  I  took  it  without  thinking 
much  about  you,  Bob ;  t'at 's  so.  I  haf  no  business 
to  ast  you  to  be  fair.  Yit  I  know  you  will  be.  She 's 
all  I  got.  I  haf  not  a  friend  or  relation  in  t'e  world 
but  chust  her.  You  haf  so  many  friends—" 

"  Friends,"  says  I.  "  Hell !  What  do  I  keer  for— 
friends !  I  want  her !  " 


70  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

"Yes,"  says  Hal,  nice  an'  soft.  He  could  talk  as 
soft  as  a  woman  if  lie  tried.  "  If  she  wass  to  you 
anything  like  she  is  to  me,  I— understand." 

"  She  wass  more  !  By  t'e  Lord,  she  is  more  !  You 
nef er  Jcen  keer  for  her  as  I  do !  It  ain't  in  you," 
says  I.  "  An'  you  took  her  from  me  !  " 

"No,"  says  Hal,  chust  as  soft;  "not  more— not 
more.  T'at  is  impossible.  Good  night,  Bob.  Good-by." 

He  held  out  his  hand  ag'in,  an7  I  took  it  an'  held  it. 

"  Look  yere,  Hal,"  I  says ;  "  don't  you  go  away  with 
t'at  in  your  head— about  playing  fair.  Don't  you  go 
away  with  t'e  idea  t'at  Daisy  is  yourn,  an'  t'at  I  'm 
a-going  to  stay  away  from  her.  By  t'e  Lord,  I  '11  not 
do  anything  of  t'e  kind.  You  understand  ?  If  I  kin 
git  her  away  from  you—" 

"  I  understand,"  he  says,  hanging  his  head.  "  Still, 
I  know  you  '11  be  fair.  But,  Bob,  if  I  don't  git  back—" 

"  Shut  up ! "  I  says.  "  You  an'  me  air  friends  in 
everything  but  this.  In  this  we  air  deadly  enemies. 
No  quarter  is  my  motto— you  understand?  You  're 
warned." 

"  You  a  little  rough  sometimes,"  says  Hal,  "  but  no 
man  efer  had  a  better  friend.  I  'm  not  afeared." 

I  noticed  how  he  lingered  on,  though. 

"  Bob,"  he  says  ag'in,  "  she  liked  you  before  I  come. 
She  likes  you  yit.  Of  course  I  know  she  likes  me 
better.  But  if  I  wass  n't  yere— mebbe—  Bob,  I  '11 
make  a  bargain  with  you—" 

"  About  Daisy  ? "  says  I. 

"  Yes,"  he  says. 

"  No,  you  won't ! "  says  I.  "  I  just  tol'  you  it 's  a 
fight  an'  no  quarter  there.  I  'd  murder  for  her ! n 


"OUR  ANCHEL",  71 

"  Then,"  says  he,  soft  and  kind  ag'in,  "  I  >11  chust 
tell  you  something— because  we  're  such  good  friends. 
If  our  side  loses—" 

"  I  hope  it  does,"  says  I,  hard  as  iorn. 

"  I  shill  nefer  come  back.  By  t'at  you  '11  know  t'at 
she  's— " 

"  Shut  up  !  "  says  I. 

"  Good-by,"  says  Hal.     "  Bob— she  's  our  anchel ! ;; 


II 

BY  THE  LORD,  IT  WAS  N'T  HAL! 

WELL,  it  wass  about  t'e  nicest  thing  t'at  efer  hap 
pened,  for  me— Hal's  going  to  war.  I  had  Daisy  all 
to  myself,  an'  I  soon  found  out  t'at  she  needed  some 
one  bad.  Think  of  t'e  temptation— efery  day  an'  hour 
almost !  An'  I  did  n't  waste  no  time  nor  chances.  An' 
Daisy  nicer  than  efer  with  t'at  little  sadness  in  her 
eyes  !  Well,  she  knowed  it  as  well  as  I  did  what  wass 
up,  an'  kep'  me  straight— as  straight  as  she  could— for 
a  while.  But  efen  t'at  got  to  be  pooty  hard  to  do. 
She  'd  for  git  all  about  Hal  now  an'  then— women  air 
women  all  t'e  world  ofer.  But  one  moonlight  night 
Daisy  brought  me  up  to  t'e  right  about  face.  I  r'ally 
don'  know  chust  exsac'ly  how  it  happened.  I  expect 
I  went  a  little  too  fast.  We  took  a  walk  an'  drifted 
into  a  little  woods,  an'  t'e  first  thing  I  knowed  I  had 
Daisy's  hands,  a-holding  on  to  them  like  they  be 
longed  to  me.  Daisy  must  'a'  intirely  forgot  Hal  t'at 


72  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

night.  She  let  me  pull  her  head  of  er  on  my  shoulder. 
I  kissed  her.  I  wass  sure  I  could  make  her  gife  Hal 
up.  But  chust  about  t'at  time  somebody  laughed— a 
kind  of  "  I-tol'-you-so  !  "  laugh— an'  Sally  Brenizer 
passed  us.  Daisy  jumped  up  an'  stood  there  before 
me,  stiff  as  a  poker.  In  a  minute  she  knowed  what  I 
wass  up  to  all  t'e  time. 

"  Bob/'  she  says,  hard  an'  cold,  "  I  want  you  to  go 
away." 

"  What  for?"  I  ast  her,  like  a  fool. 

"  You  know  well  enough." 

She  walked  out  of  t'e  woods  mighty  fast. 

"  It 's  not  a  bit  of  danger,  Daisy,"  says  I ;  "  you 
would  n't  marry  me  if  I  wass  made  of  gold." 

She  laughed  a  little.     Then  her  eyes  shone. 

"  No,  I  shall  nef er  marry  no  golden  man,"  she  says. 
"He  's  got  to  be  flesh  an'  blood— warm  an'  tender, 
big  an'  brave—" 

She  stopped  as  if  she  'd  said  too  much. 

"  But-t'at  's  not  Hal,"  says  I.     "  He  's  little  !  " 

"  It  is  !  It  is  Hal !  "  she  says,  turning  on  me  like 
a  tiger.  "  An'  I  want  you  to  go  !  " 

"All  right,"  I  says;  "I  '11  go  right  off  to  war  an' 
git  killed.  But,  by  t'e  Lord,  t'at  ain't  Hal !  " 

She  switched  right  around  an'  caught  my  arm. 

"  Bob,"  she  says,  in  a  pleading  kind  of  way,  "  I  do 
not  command  you  to  go :  I  leg  you— so  t'at  I  may  be 
true— so  t'at  you  may  not  be  a  traitor.  Go.  But  come 
back— oh,  Bob,  come  back  to— we." 

She  put  her  head  in  her  hands  an'  cried  like  a  child. 
I  tried  to  take  her  hands,  but  she  got  away  from  me. 

"  Bob,  for  God's  sake  don't  touch  me  !  "  she  says. 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  73 

"  You  afeared  of  me  ? "  I  says. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  "  yes ;  I  am  afeared  of  you !  Oh, 
t'e  Brenizer  girls  wass  right." 

"  I  won't  go  for  t'at,  Daisy,"  says  I. 

"No,"  she  says.  "But  you  will  go  becauss  you 
tempt  me  efery  day— efery  day  to  for  git— to  forgit. 
No,  you  will  not  go  for  t'at— but  for  me— an7— an'  you 
will  come  back— to  me  an'— an'— Hal." 

"  To  you,"  says  I.     "Not  Hal !  » 

"  You  promised  to  be  fair." 

"  No,  I  did  n't,"  I  says ;  "  an'  I  nef er  will  be  !  " 

"  Oh,  Bob  !  "  she  says.     "  Please— be  fair !  " 

But  as  I  looked  there  wass  something  in  her  eyes 
t'at  she  could  not  conceal,  an'  it  wass  gladness — 
gladness— by  t'e  Lord  ! 

"  I  will  come  back  to  you— for  you,"  I  says.  "  After 
t'e  war  there  will  be  anot'er  fight.  It  will  be  yere. 
You  are  my  all  in  all.  Without  you  I  do  not  keer  to 
life.  If  he  keers  for  you  t'at  much  it  must  be  you  or— 
or— something  we  can't  talk  about.  After  this  I  will 
be  fair.  But  there  will  be  no  quarter.  I  would  kill 
him  if  he-" 

Her  head  drooped  a  little. 

"Good-by,"  I  says;  "you  air  mine  if  I  win  you— 
his  if  he  does.  But  no  quarter !  " 

She  looked  up  sudden  an'  t'e  light  went  out  of  her 
face.  I  held  out  my  hand. 

"  Good-by,"  she  whispers  back. 

I  left  her  standing  there.  An'  when  I  wass  'most 
half  a  mile  away  she  mofed  for  t'e  first  time.  She 
wafed  her  han'kercher,  an'  t'at  wass  t'e  last  I  seen 
of  her. 


74  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

III 

GETTYSBURG ! 

WELL,  by  1863  we  got  round  to  Gettysburg  with  Han 
cock,  an'  on  July  3d  we  wass  with  Ricketts's  Battery  on 
Cemetery  Eidge.  In  t'e  morning  it  wass  quiet  enough, 
considering  what  wass  going  on,  but  things  did  n't 
look  right.  We  wass  on  t'e  watchout  efery  minute 
for  trouble.  About  one  o'clock  t'e  great  artillery  fight 
commenced.  You  'f e  heared  'bout  t'e  whole  thing  often 
enough,  I  expect.  But  hearing  about  it  is  mighty 
watery  kind  of  business  to  them  'at  wass  it.  T'e  ole 
earth  trimbled  like  it  wass  an  earthquake,  an'  it  look 
like  a  flea  could  n't  hardly  life  in  such  a  place.  Efery 
foot  of  ground  wass  plowed  up  with  shot,  an'  it  kep' 
a  feller  busy  dodging  to  keep  his  head  on.  An'  then 
sometimes  a  feller  'd  dodge  out  of  one  thing  right 
into  anot'er,  an'  lose  it,  after  all.  Well,  we  did  n't  let 
t'e  rebels  make  all  t'e  noise,  I  ken  tell  you.  But  soon 
t'e  walley  in  our  front  got  filled  with  smoke  an'  we 
could  n't  see  a  thing.  T'e  only  way  to  locate  Long- 
street  wass  by  t'e  flash  of  his  guns.  An'  of  course 
t'at  's  t'e  way  he  located  us.  We  could  see  his  shells 
come  tearing  through  t'at  curtain  of  smoke  as  if  it 
wass  made  of  muslin— efery  shell  leafing  a  hole. 
Well,  as  I  said,  we  wass  on  t'e  lookout  for  t'e  trouble 
t'e  rebs  wass  cooking  up  for  us  behind  t'at  curtain, 
an'  soon  t'e  word  come  along  'at  Gineral  Warren  had 
found  out  what  it  wass.  He  had  a  signal-station  on 
Little  Roundtop  abofe  an'  back  of  us,  an'  when  t'e 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  75 

smoke  'd  git  tore  by  t'e  shells  he  >d  take  a  look  through 
t'e  hole.  Well,  under  t'e  cofer  of  t'e  smoke  Long- 
street  wass  massing  a  whole  division  for  an  assault 
upon  our  center !  T'e  artillery  wass  ordered  to  stop 
firing  so  's  t'e  smoke  could  clear  an7  gife  us  a  chance 
to  see  7em.  An'  when  we  stopped  they  knowed  t'at  we 
had  found  out  what  they  wass  up  to,  an'  stopped  too. 
It  wass  quiet  as  a  funeral.  An'  t'e  rebels  did  n't  make 
no  f urt'er  secret  of  their  plans ;  chust  like  they  wass 
sure  to  git  us  an'  did  n't  keer  no  more.  A  fact,  I 
think  they  wass  anxious  to  be  seen  now— so  's  to 
frighten  us.  They  nefer  had  a  notion  what  for  kind 
of  men  wass  behind  them  stone  walls !  Frighten  us ! 
They  might  'a'  knowed  better !  We  'd  had  a  chance, 
most  of  us,  to  git  ofer  t'at  for  three  years !  Well,— ex 
cuse  me,  I  git  a  little  excited  talking  about  it,— when 
t'e  smoke  cleared,  what  we  saw  was  worth  looking  at 
—to  a  soldier,  anyhow.  Down  in  t'e  walley  Pickett's 
men  wass  chust  mofing  out  from  behind  a  bunch  of  red 
barns  about  three  quarters  of  a  mile  away,  as  gay  as 
if  they  wass  on  dress-parade.  If  I  recollect  right, 
they  wass  singing  or  cheering,  mebbe  both.  Their 
arms  wass  at  a  right-shoulder  shift— as  if  they  did  n't 
intend  to  use  them.  Both  arms  an'  uniforms  had 
been  cleaned  till  they  shone  an'  glittered  in  t'e  sun. 
Oh,  I  ken  shut  my  eyes  an'  see  it  yit !  An'  it 's  forty 
years  ago !  About  twenty  thousand  t'e  best  men  in 
Lee's  army  walking  straight  up  to  our  guns— no  cover, 
no  shade,  an'  grape  an'  canister  all  ready  for  'em  an7 
waiting— straight  on  our  guns,  with  laughter  on  their 
faces!  We  chust  stood  an'  looked,  an'  let  t'e  guns 
take  keer  themself es  a  little.  Who  would  n't  ?  Yere 


76  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

was  twenty  thousand  men,  ten  thousand  of  which  would 
be  dead  in  a  couple  of  minutes !  Not  a  gun  had  been 
fired  at  them  yit.  Seemed  like  our  artillery  was  para 
lyzed  ;  but  our  men  wass  only  gitting  their  batteries 
posted  for  them— depressing  t'e  guns  all  t'e  time, 
lower  an'  lower  as  they  came  on  !  We  made  no  change. 
We  wass  chust  behind  a  little  bunch  of  trees  at  which 
they  seemed  to  be  aiming.  Chust  Hunt  sent  us  a  few 
more  guns.  Soon  eferything  wass  ready  for  them— 
solid  shot,  shell,  grape,  an7  canister  piled  right  by  each 
gun.  They  had  passed  some  trees  on  this  side  t'e  barn 
an'  corrected  their  alinement,  an'  were  coming  on  like 
a  beautiful  machine.  I  nef er  seen  nothing  like  t'at,  an' 
nefer  shill,  I  expect.  Not  a  man  out  of  step  or  out  of 
line.  I  had  t'e  lanyard  in  my  hand  ready.  A  shell 
was  in  t'e  gun.  Gushing  was  pointing  it.  "  Fire  !  " 
came  t'e  word  j  an'  twenty  lanyards  clicked  an'  twenty 
shells  tore  through  the  ranks  below  us.  I  jumped  on 
t'e  stone  fence  a  minute  to  see.  A  dozen  bloody  lanes 
wass  cut  in  their  ranks.  But  they  closed  up  without 
losing  step,  an'  mofed  on  ag'in  as  fine  an'  sassy  as  efer. 
Then  it  wass  "  Fire ! "  ag'in  an'  ag'in,  with  t'e  same 
result.  Then  Longstreet  opens  on  us,  eighty  or  ninety 
guns.  They  had  come  about  half  a  mile  under  our 
fire.  We  could  see  t'at  t'e  ranks  wass  thinner,  an'  t'at 
there  wass  a  gray  trail  behind  'em,  where  wounded 
men  wass  crawling  away  to  shelter.  But  now  they 
lowered  their  bayonets  an'  gev'  their  yell  an'  started 
on  a  run  for  our  breastworks.  "  Canister ! "  says 
Gushing,  an'  we  let  them  haf  it.  Once,  twice,  thrice. 
T'e  ranks  wass  gitting  thinner,  t'e  trail  behind 
thicker.  No  alinement  now,  no  parade  business  now, 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  77 

by  t'e  Lord  God !  "  Grape  to  t'e  muzzle ! "  says 
Gushing,  quieter  an'  quieter  all  t'e  time.  We  gev' 
it  to  them.  Once,  twice— t'e  second  time  right  in 
their  faces  as  they  swarmed  ofer  t'e  stone  wall.  A 
shell  exploded  under  t'e  gun.  Gushing  wiped  his  face. 
We  wass  all  black.  "  Canister !  "  says  he,  but  no  one 
mofed.  Efery  man  of  t'e  crew  wass  down  but  him 
an'  me— an'  I  wass  chust  crawling  up  with  a  piece  of 
shell  in  me.  He  understood,  and  shofed  in  a  canister 
himself.  I  shofed  in  anot'er.  A  dozen  rebels  jumped 
on  t'e  gun.  But  a  blast  from  t'e  battery  on  our  right 
— turned  to  enfilade  'em — swept  them  to  hell.  "  Now," 
says  Gushing,  "  back  her  a  little !  "  We  did  so,  an' 
Gushing  pulled  t'e  string.  It  swept  a  clean  streak 
through  them.  "  Anot'er  !  "  says  Gushing,  pulling  her 
back  a  little  more.  In  went  t'e  canister.  I  poured  on 
some  priming.  Gushing  reached  for  t'e  string.  But 
a  bayonet  through  his  breast  stopped  him  forever. 
Yit  he  tried  to  reach  it  twice  as  he  died.  Then  I 
jumped  for  it,  but  t'e  same  bayonet  stopped  me.  I  'd 
'a'  gev'  all  t'at  wass  left  of  my  life  to  pull  t'at  string. 
I  tried  hard  to  git  it,  but  it  wass  no  use.  T'e  bayonet 
wass  through  my  arm,  an'  t'e  man  held  me  pinned 
down — an'  how  it  did  hurt  when  I  stopped  trying  for 
t'e  lanyard  an'  remembered !  Then  I  turned  on  t'e 
man  with  t'e  bayonet ;  he  pushed  me  off— me  trying  to 
git  at  him.  His  face  wass  blacker  'n  a  nikker's  with 
powder-smoke,  an'  it  wass  some  blood-smears  on.  I 
expect  mine  wass  as  black.  T'e  only  thing  I  remember 
of  t'at  moment  is  madness— madness— madness !  Oh  ! 
war  is  hell !  I  thought  I  wass  killed  myself,  an'  I 
wanted  to  kill— kill  as  many  of  t'e  defils  as  I  could 


78  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

before  I  died.  It  all  happened  in  a  second  or  two. 
Of  a  suddent  I  wass  strong  as  a  bull.  I  jerked  t'e 
rebel's  gun  out  his  hands,  got  t'e  bayonet  out  my 
arm,  an'  tried  to  smash  him  with  t'e  butt.  It  wass  a 
glancing  blow,  an'  he  closed  in  on  me.  We  went  down 
toget'er.  But  he  wass  under,  an'  I  put  his  own  bayonet 
through  him  an'  laughed,— laughed  in  his  dam'  face, 
—he  wass  so  disapp'inted !  But  t'e  laugh  turned  to  a 
shifer.  T'e  gun  fell  out  of  my  hands.  I  grabbed  t'e 
rebel  an'  pulled  his  face  clost  to  mine.  I  could  n't 
see  no  more  j  he  put  his  hands  on  his  wound  for  pain, 
an'  opened  his  eyes  a  little,  an'  then  a  little  more  an' 
more,  an'  I  could  see  in  his  eyes  what  he  wass  seeing 
in  mine.  He  smiled  a  little  then,  an'  tried  to  reach 
my  hand,  an'  says  chust : 

"  Bob ! " 

An'  I  says  chust : 

"  Hal ! n 

It  wass  he— Hal— an'  a  parcel  of  his  men  t'at  had 
been  fighting  us  about  t'at  battery  like  defils— Hal  an' 
a  parcel  of  his  men,  t'e  only  ones  t'at  efer  got  acrosst 
t'at  stone  wall ! 


IV 

IT   WAS   WAR 

I  KNOWED  nothing  more  an'  I  remember  nothing  more 
tell  I  woke  up  in  t'e  field  hospital,  an'  I  thank  God  t'at 
I  do  not.  Soon  some  one,  in  a  rattling  kind  of  voice, 
like  he  wass  waiting  for  me,  says : 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  79 

"  Bob ! " 

I  looked  around,  an'  t'e  man  on  t'e  cot  next  to  me 
wass  holding  out  his  hand.  I  took  it  an'  knowed  it 
wass  Hal. 

"Can't  talk,"  he  says;  "lung." 

He  pointed  to  it,  an'  I  remembered,  an'  shifered 
ag'in. 

"  Ast  'em— put  me  yere.  Wanted  tell  you— waiting 
—you  been  out— your  head— did  n't  know— wass  you." 

He  p'inted  toward  t'e  battle-field. 

"  An'  I  did  n't  know  it  wass  you,"  says  I,  sniffling 
like  a  fool. 

"Would  n't  hurt  you  for— for— " 

He  had  to  stop  to  cough. 

"  Nor  I  you,"  says  I. 

"Forgife?" 

He  reached  out  his  hand  ag'in,  like  he  wass  n't 
quite  sure. 

"  Forgife !  "  says  I. 

He  squeezed  my  hand  an'  then  tried  to  take  his 
own  back.  But  I  held  it. 

" Forgife  me"  I  says. 

He  looked  as  if  he  did  n't  exsac'ly  understand. 

"  For  t'at."    I  pointed  to  his  breast. 

He  nodded  an'  smiled  as  if  it  wass  nothing. 

"  It  wass  war !  "  he  says. 

"An'  for  this,  too;  I  wass  n't— fair." 

I  pulled  a  daguerreotype  of  Daisy  from  my  bosom, 
where  it  wass  fast  round  my  neck  by  a  string,  an' 
held  it  up  to  him.  "  Take  it !  It  belongs  to  you," 
I  says.  He  smiled,  an'  pulled  anot'er  out  of  his  bosom 
chust  like  it. 


80  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

"  I  '11  nef er  fight  ag'in,"  he  says. 

"Nor  I,"  says  I. 

"Efen— if— I  git  well,"  he  smiled. 

"  Or  if  I  do,"  says  I. 

We  rested  awhile,  an'  then  he  says : 

"Bob— you  don't  mind— t'at  I  'm— yere— in  your 
hospital  ? " 

"  Hal,"  I  says,  "  I  'm  glad.     God  bless  you !  " 

"  I  ast  'em— to  put  me  by  you." 

He  dropped  off  to  sleep  then.  In  ten  minutes  he 
woke  up  an'  says  : 

"  Bob— think— Daisy  'd  come— if  she  knowed?" 

"  Yes,"  I  says.     "  We  '11  send  for  her." 

One  day  a  woman  all  dressed  in  black,  with  t'e 
cross  of  t'e  Christian  Commission  on,  came  to  t'e 
hospital,  an'  says,  soft  as  praying : 

"  I  haf  paper  an'  enf elopes  yere,  an'  I  will  write  a 
letter  to  any  one  you  wish." 

"  Yes,"  I  says,— it  wass  about  all  I  could  say  at  t'at 
time,— an'  she  set  down  an'  begun. 

"  Now,  do  not  hurry,"  she  says  yit ;  "  I  haf  plenty 
of  time,  an'  I  will  write  efery  word  you  say— no  mat 
ter  how  many."  I  noticed  t'at  her  voice  wass  soft  an; 
familiar,  kind  of  German,  but  I  did  n't  suspect  a  thing. 

"  Well,"  I  says,  "begin  it  'Dear  Daisy.'" 

She  wass  frightened  at  t'at. 

"  l  Dear  Daisy,'  did  you  say  ? "  she  ast  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  says.   "  For  why  you  skeered  so  'bout  t'at  ? " 

"Yes— I  wass  a  little  frightened,"  she  says.  "I 
knowed  a— Daisy.  But  there  are  many  of  t'at  name." 

"  Yes,"  I  says ;  "  but  there  is  only  one  Daisy  in  this 
world,  anyhow,  an'  you  air  going  to  write  to  her." 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  81 

"Yes,"  she  says,  very  soft  an'  nice;  "your  Daisy— 
I  understand." 

"  Our  Daisy,"  says  I. 

She  seemed  frightened  agfin. 

"  Our  Daisy— did  you— say  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  says ;  "  it  's  two  of  us." 

"Oh— two?" 

"  Yes,"  I  says ;  "  go  on.     I  'm  gitting  tired  out." 

"Pardon  me,"  she  says,  an'  I  thought  she  wass 
cryin'  a  little.  "  I  am  ready." 

"  l  Dear  Daisy,' "  I  begun  ag'in :  " '  We  air  in  t'e  hos 
pital  at  a  place  called  Gettysburg.  Both  of  us  air. 
We-'" 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  at  t'e  side  of  my  bed. 

"  Oh,  both  of  you  !     Where— where  is  t'e  ot'er  1 " 

An'  I  knowed  she  wass  crying. 

"  Now,  don't  you  worry,"  says  I.  "  You  can't  cry  so 
nice  for  efery  wounded  soldier.  It 's  too  many  of  us 
yere.  Go  on,  please." 

"  But  I  must  know— about  t'e— ot'er,"  she  kind  of 
begs.  "  I  -must— must  know !  " 

I  felt  her  lifting  up  t'e  bandage  on  my  face  an' 
looking  at  me— a  long  time. 

"Well,  then,"  I  says,  "there  he  is— right  behind 
you.  Don't  wake  him  up.  He  sleeps  'most  all  t'e  time. 
They  keep  him  under  t'e  influence  of  something  ac 
count  his  pain.  Hal — his  name  's  Hal — he 's  my  best 
friend,  if  he  is  a  rebel.  I  did  n't  always  think  so,  but 
I  do  now;  an'  Daisy  's  t'e  best  friend  of  us  both. 
We  're  both  in  lofe  with  her,  an;  we  both  want  to 
marry  her.  She — she 's  ingaged  to  Hal.  He's  mighty 
sick.  So  am  I.  It  don't  look  like  either  of  us  '11  git 


82  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

t'e  chance  to  marry  her.  I  wass  n't  fair  with  him— 
no,  I  wass  n't.  But  I  'm  sorry  now.  I  11  be  fair 
after  this.  He— he  ken  marry  her,  an'  I  '11  go  to  t'e 
wedding— by  the  Lord !  " 

She  wass  sobbing  right  out  now— like  babies  do  'at 
can't  help  it.  She  turned  an'  looked  at  Hal;  I  think, 
an'  then  says,  says  she,  sobbing : 

"  Let  us  go  on  with  t'e  letter,  please." 

"  It  wass  a  fight  yere  t'e  last  three  days,"  I  tells  her,  "  an? 
Hal  an'  me  wass  both  wounded.  He  on  t'e  one  side,  me  on 
t'e  ot'er— fighting.  It  ain't  a  pleasant  story,  an'  I  '11  tell  you 
about  it  when  you  come.  It  '11  take  some  courage  to  tell 
it.  But  I  ken  do  it.  Hal 's  asleep  alongside  of  me.  He  's 
too  bad  hurt  to  write.  An'  he  's  asleep  ;  t'at  's  why  I  got  to 
do  it.  An'  he  must  n't  be  waked  up;  t'e  doctor  says  so. 
Daisy,  can't  you  come  to  see  him?  He  is  hurt  bad,  an'  also 
his  side  lost.  I  pity  him.  You  will,  too,  when  you  see  him. 
He  ast  me  t'e  ot'er  day  if  I  thought  you  'd  come.  I  says, 
of  course  she  will— if  it  's  a  thousand  miles,  instead  of 
twenty  or  thirty.  So  please  an'  come  to  see  your  two  friends, 

"BOB  AN' HAL. 

"P.S.  An'  mebbe  you  'd  marry  him  right  yere?  He  'd 
like  t'at;  so— so  would  I— 

"HAL,  BOB." 

She  chust  took  t'e  letter  an'  wrote  something  below. 
Then  she  took  off  my  bandage  so  's  I  could  see,  an' 
held  it  up  to  my  eyes. 

DEAR  BOB,  DEAR  HAL:  I  haf  chust  got  your  letter— an' 
am  yere.  DAISY. 

I  can't  tell  exsac'ly  what  happened  in  t'e  next  few 
minutes.  I  expect  I  don't  know.  An'  if  you  nefer 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  83 

wass  no  wounded  soldier  an'  in  lofe  with  Daisy  you 
can't  efen  imagine  it.  All  'at  I  remember  is  t'at  in  a 
little  while  she  wass  kneeling  between  our  two  cots, 
with  a  hand  of  each  in  hern,  an'  it  seemed  like  t'at 
healed  efery thing.  All  t'e  jealousy  an'  heartburning, 
all  t'e  fighting,  all  t'e  trials,  all  t'e  fire  an'  blood  an' 
waste  of  life,  wass  forgot,  an'  chust  t'at  little  hand  an' 
t'at  voice  remembered.  Chust  as  if  it  had  all  been 
for  this,  an'  this  one  joyous  moment— an'  as  if  it 
wass  all  worth  this ! 

An'  happy !  I  wass  happy  myself.  But  to  see  Hal's 
face  you  'd  think  he  wass  in  heafen.  An'  t'at  made 
me  happy,  too— Hal's  happiness. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  DEATH 

SHE  stayed  right  there  an'  nursed  us  as  no  two 
soldiers  efer  wass  nursed  before.  An'  I  kep'  gitting 
better  all  t'e  time  account  I  wass  so  happy,  an'  Hal 
kep'  gitting  worse  for  t'e  same  reason.  You  see,  he 
would  n't  an'  would  n't  keep  quiet. 

T'e  doctor  toP  me  he  had  a  chance  before  Daisy 
come,  but  it  wass  gone  now. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  "  what  is  t'e  difference  1  He  '11  die 
t'e  happiest  man  I  efer  saw."  An'  he  did. 

It  came  in  t'e  night.  Daisy  wass  sleeping  a  little, 
when  Hal  woke  me  up.  T'e  torch  was  dancing  in  front 
of  t'e  tent,  an'  I  could  see  t'at  his  face  wass  shining  in 
a  kind  of  way  t'at  wass  almost  holy. 


84  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

"  Bob,"  he  says,  "  call  Daisy ." 

I  had  her  there  in  a  minute.  She  soon  seen  what 
wass  up.  With  one  great  sob  she  dropped  down  at 
Hal's  cot  an'  wass  quiet,  an'  I  dropped  down  aside  of 
her.  We  wass  all  awed  an'  trembly,  but  Hal  he  still 
had  t'at  light  in  his  face,  an'  wass  smiling  up  at  us 
like  old  times— old,  old  times !  How  far  away  they 
seemed  then !  Oh,  but  he  looked  young  an'  pitiful ! 
An'  I  had  killed  him  !  Down  in  my  breast  I  cursed 
t'e  war  an'  all  t'e  people  who  had  helped  to  bring  this 
awful  thing  about. 

"  Hal,"  I  says,  "  I  'm  sorry." 

"  Bob,"  he  says,  "  it  wass  war." 

"  Hal,"  I  says,  "  God  bless  you ! " 

He  looked  from  Daisy  to  me  a  little,  then  back 
ag'in,  his  smile  gitting  brighter  all  t'e  time. 

"He  has,"  Hal  says  then.  "He  has  gifen  me  t'e 
two— best  friends— any  man  efer  had.  T'e— two- 
best— friends."  His  eyes  got  dim,  an'  he  groped  with 
his  hands.  Daisy  put  hern  in  'em. 

He  understood. 

"  T'at 's— right— Daisy." 

Then  his  mind  wandered  a  little : 

"  Bob  killed— me.  Did  you-know  t'at  Bob  killed 
—me?  If  it  had  n't  been  war— it  would  have  been 
—murder— if  it  had  n't— been— war— strange- 
war— murder— " 

We  sat  there  together,  without  a  word,  till  his 
hands  got  cold,  and  we  knowed  what  had  happened. 
Then  I  says : 

"  Daisy." 

She  turns  on  me  with  a  look  I  had  nefer  seen  in 
her  eyes,  and  says : 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  85 

"  Hush ! " 

An'  so  it  wass  always— hush !  until  I  could  n't  bear  it 
no  more.  For  I  could  see  it  all  in  her  eyes,  but  could 
not  say  a  word.  An'  Daisy,  what  she  did  for  me  now 
wass  for  duty— not  love. 

Chust  once  she  spoke  about  it. 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  she  ast. 

« I  killed  him,"  I  says.     «  But-" 

"  Hush !  "  says  she,  with  t'at  look  on  her  face  ag'in. 
"  Not  one  word !  " 

One  day  she  led  me  out  for  a  walk.  I  don't  know 
how  it  happened,  but  we  both  went  right  to  t'e  spot. 
Things  had  been  cleared  up  a  little,  but  it  still  looked 
pretty  ragged.  We  stopped  an'  slowly  faced  each 
ot'er,  an'  her  eyes  said,  "Where?"  I  found  t'e  spot, 
an'  she  stooped  an'  kissed  it.  I  stood  tell  she  got  up. 
Then  she  took  my  arm ;  but  I  would  n't  go. 

"  It  wass  war,"  I  says. 

"  It  wass  murder !  "  she  says. 

We  stood  so  without  a  word  a  long  time. 

"  T'e  sweetest  an'  gentlest  soul  t'at  efer  lifed !"  says 
she. 

"  T'e  sweetest  an'  gentlest  soul  t'at  efer  lifed,"  says  I. 

Still  we  stood  there. 

"  I  haf  anot'er  word  to  say,"  says  I,  "  an'  yere  's  t'e 
place  to  say  it." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  ast. 

"  Good-by." 

She  started  a  little. 

"  Come,"  she  says  then,  an'  started  to  lead  me  home. 
"  You  too  weak  yit.  I  haf  my  order.  Come !  " 

I  obeyed. 

Back  over  t'e  Walley  of  Death  we  went,  an'  I  saw 


86  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

it  all  once  more :  t'e  smoke,  t'e  fire,  t'e  blood,  t'e  heat, 
t'e  din— shouts  of  wictory,  curses  of  defeat,  death. 
Then  it  wass  war— "  glorious  war,"  as  they  call  it. 
But  now  it  wass  bitter,  bitter  murder !  I  stopped. 

"  We  part  yere,"  I  says.     "  I  can't  stand  it." 

She  seemed  unhappy. 

"Where  you  going?"  she  ast  me. 

"  Back  to  my  rigiment,"  says  I. 

"You— you  said  you  wass  nefer  goin'  to  fight  no 
more  ? " 

"Yes— I  said  that,"  says  I,  "long  ago.  But  now  I 
got  to  fight— or  something.  Good-by." 

"  Bob-" 

She  seemed  about  to  break  down,  an'  finally  held 
out  her  hands.  I  took  an'  kissed  them.  She  came  a 
little  closer  an'  put  up  her  lips— chust  as  if  I  had 
forced  her.  But  I  shook  my  head  an'  turned  away. 

"  Not  a  murderer,"  says  I. 


VI 

HOME! 

WELL,  I  went  back  an'  fought  for  two  years  more— 
fought  like  a  defil,  fought  to  forgit,  to  be  killed. 
But  two  things  I  nefer  could  f  orgit— t'e  paleness  of  her 
face  an'  t'e  coldness  of  t'e  lips  I  did  n't  need  to  touch 
to  feel.  They  tell  you  t'at  time  cures  all  things.  But 
t'at  nefer  got  better.  I  could  see  t'at  face,  feel  those 
lips,  an'  hear  t'at  voice  saying  it  wass  murder  in  battle. 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  87 

Yes,  as  I  "  murdered n  ot'er  rebels,  God  help  me  I 
They  were  all  plainer  to  me  on  t'e  day  I  wass  mustered 
out  than  t'e  day  I  left  her  in  t'e  Walley  of  Death  at 
Gettysburg. 

I  walked  home  from  t'e  grand  renew.  It  wass  only 
about  fifty  miles,  an'  I  wanted  to  go  through  Gettys 
burg  once  more,  see  t'at  spot  ag'in,  an'  go  through  t'e 
Walley  of  Death.  It  wass  harder  to  find  now— t'e 
spot;  but  nothing  on  earth  could  keep  it  from  me, 
an'  presently  I  knowed  t'at  I  had  my  lips  on  t'e 
spot  she  had  kissed.  An;  t'e  saddest  tears  I  efer 
shed  dropped  into  t'e  grass  where  t'e  blood  of  both  of 
us  had  fallen  two  years  before.  Our  blood  an'  her 
tears !— all  for  her  lofe !  An'  then  I  knowed  what  I 
had  r'ally  come  for— to  kiss  t'e  spot  she  had  kissed ! 
Well,  I  had  done  t'at.  An'  what  now  ?  Home  ?  No  ! 
I  saw  ag'in  t'at  in  her  eyes.  No !  I  rose  an'  faced 
south— t'e  way  I  had  come.  As  I  did  so  a  woman  stood 
before  me  suddenly.  I  staggered  back  as  if  I  had  seen 
her  ghost,  so  frail  wass  she ;  yit— beautiful— beauti 
ful  as  an  anchel !  Beautiful  as  t'e  anchel  we  use'  to 
call  her— Hal  an*  me.  I  thought,  somehow,  of  t'e 
moment  I  put  t'e  bayonet  through  Hal. 

She  smiled  an'  held  out  her  arms.  I  did  n't  mofe. 
I  could  n't.  She  came  slowly  toward  me.  I  mofed 
back.  She  stopped  an'  t'e  pain  I  knowed  of  old  came 
in  her  eyes. 

"Bob— oh,  Bob,"  she  whispered,  "wass  it  too  much 
to  efer  f orgif e  ?  I  knoiv  now.  You  did  n't  tell  me.  I 
would  n't  let  you.  I  am  glad  you  nef  er  tried.  But  I 
~know.  Yes,  it  wass  war." 

Ag'in  she  came  on.    I  put  her  away.     Something 


88  "OUR  ANCHEL" 

seemed  bursting  inside  me.  For  two  year  I  had  kept 
it  down.  But  now  it  broke  out. 

"  You  haf  broke  my  heart/'  I  says. 

"  Then  let  me  heal  it,  Bob/7  she  says.  "  Oh,  Bob/' 
she  begs,  "  take  me— take  me— take  me !  I  am  so  tired 
waiting  for  you— so  tired  waiting  to  confess— to  con 
fess— t'at  I  came  to  meet  you !  " 

" Confess— confess  what?"  I  says. 

"Oh,  Bob,  a  woman  must  confess  in  some  one's 
arms — on  some  one's  breast — in  some  one's  heart — 
some  one  who  is  brafe  enough  an'  strong  enough  to 
forgife  her  when  she  is— is— wrong.  To  lofe  her  after 
she  has  cleaned  her  heart!  I  wass  a  girl  then— 
almost  a  child.  I  am  a  woman  now,  an'  I— oh,  Bob 
—I  haf— suffered.  I  haf  suffered!  Yes,  I  am  a 
woman  now.  Look  at  me !  " 

I  did.  If  I  had  lofed  her  before  I  adored  her  then. 
She  wass  a  woman— t'e  most  splendid  to  me  t'at  God 
efer  made.  I  kneeled  down  an'  kissed  t'e  hem  of  her 
frock. 

"  You  are  our  anchel !  "  I  says. 

An'  then— I  don't  know  how  it  happened— I  did  n't 
say  a  word— I  could  n't— I  did  n't  mofe,  but  she  knelt 
down  there,  too.  An'  then,  somehow,  my  arms  opened 
ag'inst  my  will,  an'  when  she  wass  in  them,  an'  trying 
to  git  closer  an'  closer,  how  could  I  let  her  go  1  An' 
her  confession?  She  did  n't  make  it  tell  long  after 
ward,  and  it  wass  this : 

"  I  wass  t'e  guilty  one,  becauss— I  lofed  you  and 
pitied  him." 

"  Bob— come  home ! " 


"OUR  ANCHEL"  89 

We  turned  homeward.  But  she  went  back  to  t'e 
spot  we  knew.  I  did  not  look  to  see  what  she  done. 
When  she  reached  me  ag'in  she  put  her  arm  in  mine 
an'  held  it  close  while  we  crossed  onct  more  t'e  Walley 
of  Death. 


THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 


THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 


THE  PLACE  WHICH  THROBBED 

ON  the  porches  of  the  Crazy-Quilt  House  (which  is 
not  its  name)  the  ladies  who  knitted  called  Gram- 
mis  queer  because  he  chose  to  reside  in  his  seven- 
foot  sneak-box  much  more  than  at  the  hotel  where 
they  knitted.  Well— I,  also,  would  have  chosen  as 
Grammis  did ;  so  there  is  a  pair  of  us  !  Perhaps  you 
will  join  us  and  make  it  three  ! 

Fancy,  I  beg  of  you,  speeding  under  the  stars,  or  a 
moon,  or  in  the  darkness,  upon  one's  back,  with  four 
miles  of  water  on  each  side  of  one— the  sea  beyond  ! 

Then  fancy  a  hot  room,  smelling  of  coal-oil  lamps 
in  which  women's  voices  shrieked,  while  some  one 
played  with  "  magnificent  execution." 

Now !     Are  there  not  three  of  us  ? 

And  what  do  you  think  of  Grammis?  I  like  him 
well.  For  I,  who  am  not  wise,  solved  Grammis  in  an 
hour.  He  needed  a  comrade,  and  presently  she  came. 

Grammis  spent  that  night  on  the  hotel  porch— and 
four  ambrosial  others.  He  said  very  little,  and  kept 
his  rocker  where  he  might  adore  her  best. 

93 


94  THE   LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 

Have  you  seen  those  busts  from  Vienna?  There 
will  be  the  head  of  a  woman  with  dainty  lips,  long- 
lashed  eyes,  and  much  splendid  hair— but  not  a  shade 
of  soul ! 

Such  was  she !  So  the  ladies  who  knitted  whis 
pered  when  they  saw  Grammis  falling  in  love. 

Suddenly,  on  that  fourth  night,  she  gave  Grammis 
his  chance : 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  these  nights  while 
I  have  chattered  ? " 

"  There  is  a  place  which  throbs  when  you  look  up 
ward;  it  is  here— " 

Grammis  had  almost  pointed  it  out  to  her— when 
he  awoke. 

Miss  Arras  yawned. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  quite  midnight !  "  she  said.  "  Good 
night,  Mr.—  Mr.— " 

"  Grammis,"  said  Grammis,  innocently. 

Miss  Arras  laughed  into  her  handkerchief,  and 
went  to  bed. 

Grammis's  watch  showed  him,  when  he  was  in  a 
condition  to  observe  it,  that  the  hour  was  ten. 

Grammis  spent  the  next  night  on  the  bay— and 
then  many  of  them.  For  one  had  come  to  the  Crazy- 
Quilt  House  who  was  neither  silent  nor  foolish.  But 
then,  neither  did  he  observe  that  she  had  a  spot  under 
her  chin  which  throbbed  ! 

She  had  remembered  that.  She  would  tilt  her  chin 
at  the  mirror— and  be  vexed!  Then  think  of  the 
gentleness  of  Grammis's  smile,  and  think  him  a  fool, 
and  sigh,  quite  as  if  she  liked  him  better  and  better 
for  it. 


THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL  95 

II 

NO  SOUL  HAS  SHE 

GRAMMIS,  coming  up  from  the  bay  one  night  very  late, 
heard  her  on  the  hotel  porch  telling  something  to  Gar- 
ran,  the  new-comer — alone.  And  this  was  the  end  of  it : 

"And  I  said,  'It  must  be  quite  midnight,  Mr.— 
Mr.— '  I  'd  forgot  his  name  !  " 

"  And  he  told  it  to  you,  eh  ? " 

They  laughed  merrily  here. 

"  And  then  went  off  like  a  shot  ? " 

"  Like  a  shot." 

Garran  laughed  alone. 

"And  it  was  only  ten  o'clock?" 

"  It  was  not  yet  ten." 

More  laughter,  but  all  Garran's. 

Grammis,  there  below  the  porch,  did  not  care  that 
the  light  shone  full  in  his  face.  And  her  words  quite 
passed  him.  She  was  in  evening  dress.  He  could  see 
the  place  which  throbbed.  And  he  had  but  one  ad 
jective  for  her— glorious ! 

Do  you  perceive  how  poor  Grammis  was  in  adjec 
tives  ? 

And,  somehow,  he  understood  something  which 
differed  from  her  words.  It  made  him  warm  at  the 
heart !  He  did  not  care  for  her  words  ! 

She  looked  at  Grammis.  Grammis  looked  at  her. 
He  smiled  and  passed  on.  He  heard  her  say : 

"That  is  he." 

Garran  looked  over  the  balustrade. 


96  THE  LADY  AND  HER   SOUL 

It  seemed  that  Garran  found  a  Waterloo. 

"  She  has  no  soul— not  an  atom ! n  he  said  to 
Grammis. 

Grammis  stared  at  him.  It  had  vast  speech— that 
stare  of  Grammis's ! 

"  She  said  she  has  never  felt  an  emotion.  And  I 
knew  it  before  she  told  me  !  n 

"  How  ? "  asked  Grammis. 

"  Look  at  her !  "  answered  Garran. 

"  Look  at  her  ?     I  have." 

"Wdlt" 

Grammis  thought  of  the  place  which  throbbed,  and 
of  that  one  adjective  of  his,  and  was  silent. 

"  You  're  a  pair  !  "  said  Garran.  "  Nothing  I  said 
made  her  wink  an  eyelash.  It  does  n't  make  you  do 
so.  When  I  was  done  she  said  what  she  did  to  you 
— l  good  night ! ' ' 

And  he  went  away  on  the  three-o'clock  train— 
Garran. 


Ill 

GRAMMIS'S  WEAPON 

That  was  in  Happy  June  :  This, 
This  was  in  Triste  September. 

ONE  day,  far  from  that  other,  he  found  her  on  the 
solitary  little  pier  when  he  came  to  loose  his  boat. 

"You  should  not   sail  so  much  alone.      Suppose 
something  should  happen— to  the  boat  ? " 


THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL  97 

Grammis  only  smiled  and  lifted  his  cap— showing 
the  head  which  was  so  much  better  to  see  than  the 
cap. 

"  If  there  were  a  few  feet  more  to  it  I  would  risk 
going  with  you — in  case  you  should  ask  me  !  n 

"I  wish  there  were  a  few  feet  more  to  it,"  said 
Grammis,  dealing  lightly  with  the  impossible. 

"  For  that  beautiful  saying,  I  shall  go  without  the 
additional  feet." 

She  moved  to  get  in. 

"Mrs.  Grundy?"  suggested  Grammis,  with  humor, 
still  dealing  with  the  impossible. 

"  Does  not  live  here  now,"  said  she.  "  It  is  Sep 
tember.  You  and  I  are  all !  " 

She  was  standing  above  him  now.  His  hand  was 
upon  the  double  hitch  at  her  feet.  Grammis  could 
have  laid  his  forehead  upon  them— and  done  it  like  a 
knight.  They  were  such  beautiful  feet ! 

"  The  builder  of  this  boat  did  not  foresee  the  possi 
bility  of  such  felicity.  He  built  it  for  only  one  !  " 

"  All  men  are  fools,"  said  the  lady,  irrelevantly. 

"  Besides,  it  is  dangerous,"  replied  Grammis. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Miss  Arras,  " mainly  because 
you  don't  want  me." 

Grammis  did  not  believe  it. 

Her  eyes  saw  this. 

"  Your  hand,  please  ? " 

It  was  her  foot  he  was  to  give  his  hand  to — which 
he  did. 

"Yonder,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  channel,  and 
took  the  sheet-rope  and  the  tiller  before  Grammis 
could  reach  them. 

7 


98         THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 

"  There  is  quite  a  sea  on  out  there/'  Grammis 
warned. 

She  pointed  for  the  head  of  Bonnet  Island. 

''And  the  boat  is  overloaded—" 

"I  know  everything  you  do—"  she  snapped. 

Gentle  Grammis,  terrified,  looked  quickly  up.  The 
girl  laughed  and  finished. 

"—about  this  boat— and— this  bay.  Stop  it! 
Enjoy  yourself ! " 

It  was  good  to  be  so  suddenly  happy,  and  Grammis 
laughed  with  her— at  himself. 

"  Take  the  tiller,"  she  said  suddenly-.  "  I  'm  tired 
of  it,  and  you  bother  me  !  " 

It  was  a  feat  of  seamanship  to  exchange  places. 
He  had  to  hold  her  hands  to  steady  her— all  on  ac 
count  of  the  sea  which  was  up  to  within  a  half -inch 
of  the  wash-boards.  But  at  last  he  dropped  her  safely 
into  the  small  cockpit.  To  do  it  he  had  to  take  her 
firmly  in  his  hands  at  the  waist.  She  laughed  at 
him.  But  nothing  could  deny  Grammis  the  know 
ledge  that  when  he  did  it  her  nostrils  swelled.  It 
might  have  been  for  ecstasy !  Anyhow,  Grammis  also 
was  very  happy.  She  saw  this. 

"  Grammis,"  she  said  savagely,  "  don't  be  a  fool." 

Grammis  promptly  blushed. 

"  Grammis,"  Miss  Arras  went  on,  "  I  have  a  friend 
who  came  out  three  years  ago.  She  was  brought 
straight  from  her  convent  to  her  first  assembly.  She 
thought  men  gentle,  but  she  found  them  brutes.  She 
had  hope  for  the  next  winter.  But  no.  And  the  next. 
No.  All  brutes.  Say,  Grammis,  now  she  prefers 
them  to  be  brutes.  She  can  treat  them  as— brutes. 
Grammis,  be  a  brute." 


THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL  99 

"I  'm  a  brute  without  trying/7  laughed  happy 
Grammis. 

"  You ! " 

Grammis  again  hastened  to  blush. 

"  All  men— are— brutes— beside  such— a  woman—" 

"  Ah,  such  a  woman  !     Out  of  the  convent ! " 

"  You !  "  said  Grammis,  desperately. 

She  laughed  stridently.  But  Grammis's  honest 
eyes  were  suddenly  upon  her,  and  she  spoke  with 
gentleness : 

"  Grammis,  do  you  know  what  is  the  most  terrible 
weapon  a  gentleman  can  turn  against  a  worldly 
woman  ? " 

"  No/'  said  Grammis. 

"  The  one  you  have  turned  against  me." 

Grammis  stared. 

"  Me  f    Against  you  f  " 

"  His  gentleness." 

" Eh T "  gasped  Grammis.     " I ?" 

"  You ! " 

She  began  to  sing : 

The  twilight  lingers  on  the  rose  — 
The  danger-lamps  of  love  are  lit ! 

Gods !  what  care  I  ?    My  heart  outgoes 
Love's  peril  for  the  love  of  it ! 


IV 

LOVE'S  DANGER-LAMPS 

IT  was  Grammis's  own  song,  and  she  was  laughing  at 
him !     And,  to  Grammis,  his  songs  were  very  sacred 


100        THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 

—perhaps  only  because  they  were  melody— perhaps 
because  of  the  place  they  came  from— far,  far  within  ! 

Grammis  looked  uncomfortable— hurt. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  he  was  a  composer  ? 

"  Stop  it !  "  she  cried.  "  I  knew  it— and  sung  it— 
and  loved  it— before  I  knew— you— or  sailed  with 
you— or— "  Then  she  laughed. 

Grammis  was  sure  she  was  guying  him. 

"  Grammis  !  n  she  cried  brutally,  "  sing, "you— you— 
beggar !  Sing  your  own  song— for  me  !  " 

To  the  astonishment  of  Grammis,  she  choked  at  the 
last  word.  And  when  he  looked  up  she  was  holding 
her  throat.  Her  mouth  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  her 
eyes! 

"  The  spray ! "  she  cried,  joyously  wiping  them. 
"  Sing,  you— beggar !  " 

This  time  it  was  an  unadulterated  laugh. 

Grammis  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  offended.  But  he 
knew  it  was  impossible.  He  feared  that  he  should 
sing  if  she  said  it  again. 

And  she  said  it  again : 

"  Sing,  you— beggar !     Your  own  song !  for—me ! " 

My  heart  outgoes  where  danger  lies, 
And  you  are  —  Captain,  dear  j 

Its  Waterloo  is  in  your  eyes  — 
It  lies  in  prison  there ! 

sang  Grammis,  with  great  beauty. 

At  the  third  stanza  they  sang  together — and  could 
scarce  do  it  for  laughing,  which  caught  in  their 
throats  upon  something  else.  Grammis  sang  a  tenor 
which  was  extremely  personal  with  emotion.  You 


THE   LADY  AND  HER  .SOUL  1-Ctt 

know  how  easily  music  reaches  one's  soul,  if  it  come 
from  one's  soul ! 

Anyhow,  before  the  end,  quite,  Miss  Arras  cried 
out  to  Grammis,  breathlessly : 

"  Grammis  !     For  God's  sake— stop  !  " 

Grammis  did  not  in  the  least  understand. 

"  Why  ?  n  he  begged  to  know. 

"  Why  ?    Your  voice  is—  horrible ! "  said  Miss  Arras. 

This  was  what  he  sang : 

Oh,  be  a  generous  victor,  and  I  '11  be  a  captive  true  j 
Give  me  the  heart  I  need  so  much, 
Since  I  have  none  and  you  have  two ! 

Yet,  as  he  stared,  —for  he  knew  that  his  voice  was 
not  horrible,— Miss  Arras  leaned  forward  and  touched 
him,  and  said  very  softly : 

"  Grammis— oh,  Grammis  !  " 

But  then,  when  Grammis  had  dizzily  decided  that 
she  meant  to  be  kind  to  him,  she  added : 

"  My  feet  are  all  wet !  " 

"  And  you  are  all  happy  to-day,"  he  smiled  down 
at  her. 

"  l  At  my  expense/  you  're  adding.  But  you  might 
be  mistaken.  I  am  always  willing  to  pay  for  what 
I  get." 

Grammis  prayed  that  he  might  be  mistaken. 

And  then,  with  sudden  joy : 

"  Oh-h-h  !     The  water  has  reached  my  ankles  !  " 

Grammis  paled  and  thought  of  bailing.  But  how 
could  he  ?  She  filled  the  boat ! 

She  laughed  at  his  distress— understood  it. 


102        THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 

"  Grammis,  it  's  glorious ! "  she  cried  into  his  happy 
face. 

Grammis's  one  adjective !     In  her  mouth ! 

"  Now  my  knees !  n 

u  Something  must  be  done ! "  cried  Grammis,  sav 
agely. 

"  Yes ! "  laughed  Miss  Arras. 


"REMEMBER  THEN  WHAT  i  AM  NOW" 

Bur  the  little  pumpkin-seed  boat  plunged  into  the 
channel— cut  out  of  the  green  waters  as  cleanly  as  a 
country  road  through  woods.  Spray  wet  her  hair. 

" No !  "  she  cried  out  to  it.  "I  hate  that !  I  want 
to  look  my  best  to-day— the  best  in  all  my  life  !  And 
how  can  one  look  one's  best  with  one's  hair  be 
draggled  ? " 

His  eyes  questioned. 

"I  may  drown!  And  you  may  survive— and  see 
me  !  I  will  have  a  green  complexion !  Look  at  me 
—look !  Remember  then  what  I  am  now !  " 

Grammis's  one  word  fled  through  his  fancy,— 
glorious !  —and  was  insufficient  now. 

He  put  an  oilskin  about  her.  His  face  brushed 
her  hair.  He  kissed  it.  She  detected  him. 

"  Remember  that,  too,  when  you  take  me  out,"  she 
laughed,  and  fought  the  oilskin  for  a  moment. 


THE  LADY   AND  HER  SOUL  103 

"I  don't  want  to  be  dry."  Then,  suddenly  sur 
rendering,  she  said :  "  But  I  do  want  to  see  you  but 
ton  it  about  me !  n 

But  at  that  sort  of  thing  no  one  could  excel  Gram- 
mis.  He  buttoned  it  at  the  very  place  which  throbbed. 
He  had  to  tilt  her  chin  for  room ! 

"Grammis,"  she  cried,  "you  hurt  me— hurt  me! 
And  oh,  I  am  happy,  happy,  happy !  " 

She  caught  his  hands  madly  away  from  her  throat, 
and  held  them.  Then,  with  a  riotous  laugh,  she  kissed 
each  one  and  flung  it  away  from  her  with  force ! 

"Grammis!"  she  laughed.  "What  a  fool  you 
are ! " 

And  again : 

"  Grammis,  I  hate  you !  And  I  ought  n't  to. 
For  you  are  all  that  stands  between  me  and  a  watery 
graveyard ! " 

Yet  again : 

"  Grammis— you  make  me  shiver ! n 

Once  more : 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  a  fool !  " 

And  then  he  did  what  was  perilous,  and  what  she 
did  not  expect.  He  drew  the  hood  of  the  oilskin 
over  her  hair  and  tucked  it  in  under  its  edge.  And 
his  hands  touched  her  face. 

It  made  her  breathless. 

She  struck  his  hands  away.  She  wilfully  drew  a 
huge  lock  forth  and  let  it  fly  over  her  face ! 

And  the  oilskin  was  new,  yellow,— the  hood  was 
crimson-lined!— her  hair  another  yellow.  Her  face 
was  a  flower. 


104        THE  LADY  AND  HER  SOUL 

VI 

"BECAUSE  I  LOVE  YOU— BECAUSE  I  LOVE  YOU" 

"  STOP  it ! "  cried  Miss  Arras,  though  there  was 
nothing  to  stop.  "  Tenderness  in  a  man  is  horrid, 
Grammis.  It  hurts !  " 

"  When  it  is  to  a  woman  ? "  asked  poor  Grammis. 

"  I  told  you  men  were  brutes !  " 

" To  you?" 

"  Yes  I" 

She  almost  shouted  it  with  savagery.     Then : 

"  I  am  that  convent  girl !  " 

"  You  !  " 

"  Why  are  you  gentle  with  me,  Grammis,  when  it 
makes  me  shiver  ? " 

"  Do  you  want  an  answer  ? n 

"  Yes." 

"  An  honest  one  ? " 

" Yes—  you  would  n't  give  any  other!  You 
could  n't,  Grammis!  Look  into  my  eyes  as  you 
answer ! n 

"  Because—"  he  challenged. 

She  defied : 

"  Because?" 

"I  love  you." 

He  was  looking  far  away  over  her  head.  She 
looked  only  at  him.  Something  she  had  fiercely 
battled  against  went  out  in  a  long  sigh.  Silence. 

"  Grammis,  what  do  you  see  ? "  she  asked,  rising. 
"Look— at— me!" 


THE  LADY  AND  HEK  SOUL        105 

His  hand,  strong  and  gentle,  put  her  back. 

"  Don't  move.     Or— we  will— both— get  very  wet !  " 

The  boat  tried  to  dive  to  the  bottom.  Grammis 
flung  himself  half  over  the  stern,  and  she  stood  up. 

But  more  water  came  over. 

"  Above  my  knees/7  she  whispered  happily. 

"But  one  of  us  can  get  home  in  this  boat,"  said  Gram- 
mis.  "  Keep  her  head  to  the  swell— exactly  this  way !  " 

He  put  his  knife  into  the  deck  where  the  tiller  rested. 

She  did  not  touch  the  thing.  She  did  riot  even 
stoop  to  scorn  the  danger. 

"  Grammis,"  she  smiled,  "  it  was  my  fault." 

" Then— God  bless  you  for  it!  "  Grammis  smiled 
back  at  her.  "  Good-by.  Stick  to  the  boat !  " 

"  It  was  so  great  a  thing— it  is  so  great  a  thing—'7 

"  Stick  to  the  boat ! 77  cried  Grammis. 

"  And  you  ? 77  asked  she. 

"  Swim,"  said  he.     "  It  is  easy.     Good-by ! 77 

"  Stop  ! 77  It  was  a  command,  as  he  was  going  over, 
which  had  to  be  obeyed;  for  something  for  which 
Grammis's  very  soul  had  listened  spoke  in  it. 

"  1 7m  as  good  a  swimmer  as  you.  Grammis,  nei 
ther  you  nor  I  can  swim  those  four  miles.77 

And  then— there— Grammis  saw  in  that  splendid 
face  what  the  ladies  who  knitted  had  thought  im 
possible.  And  perhaps  Grammis's  eyes  replied — he 
had  no  voice. 

For  she  answered  him  : 

"  Grammis,  you  and  I  will  go  back  in  this  boat— 
together !  Or  we  will  sink  with  it— together !  That 
is  what  I  came  for.  That  we  might  be— together! 
Grammis,  I  love  you !  " 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 


THE  BEAUTIFUL 
GRAVEYARD 


THE  MOGI  ROAD 

ON  the  night  of  the  last  day  of  the  Feast  of  Lan 
terns,  Snowflake  went  down  to  the  sea.  It  was 
six  miles.  She  wished  to  get  there  about  an  hour 
before  the  tide  would  go  out.  It  was  a  quiet  bay 
between  boulders— not  much  larger  than  the  pond  in 
Fuda's  garden— a  little  to  the  north  of  Mogi— toward 
which  she  was  going.  And  she  chose  to  walk  rather 
than  take  a  kuruma,  because  it  was  more  joyous,  and 
she  more  alone,  that  way.  She  was  dressed  in  her 
most  splendid  apparel.  Her  most  intimate  garment— 
yumoji,  it  is  called— was  of  the  softest  silk  ever  woven. 
Her  jiban  was  a  little  more  splendid.  It  had  plum- 
blossoms  embroidered  upon  it.  Finally,  her  furisode 
was  splendid  enough  for  a  princess.  And  all  were 
white  and  new;  for  all  were  wedding-garments. 
Also,  her  face  was  exquisitely  enameled  with  oshiroi, 
and  her  lips  were  very  red  with  beni.  And  her  hair 
had  been  newly  dressed— so  that  it  looked  like  one  of 
those  ivory  carvings  you  have  seen— in  the  fashion  of 

109 


110  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

the  hana-yome— the  flower- wife.  In  it  were  superb 
kushi,  nemaki,  kanzashi— quite  as  if  she  were  rich. 
In  her  left  hand  she  carried  a  costly  branch  of  shikimi 
—tree  of  purity,  tree  of  the  Blessed  Dead.  On  her 
right  arm  she  carried  a  ship.  It  was  woven  of  barley 
straw,  and  was  more  perfect  and  beautiful  than  words 
of  mine  can  tell.  The  sails  were  of  that  same  gossamer 
silk  of  her  yumoji,  and  had  on  them  a  splendid  death- 
name  in  scarlet.  Its  cargo  was  of  fruits,  flowers,  food, 
sake",  a  samisen— everything  in  miniature  which  a 
soul  coming  back  to  earth  might  wish.  And  tucked 
away  in  the  ship,  where  he  for  whom  alone  they  were 
meant  might  find  them,  were  glowing  love-messages, 
that  the  voyager's  journey  back  to  the  Meido  away 
from  her  might  not  be  altogether  sad. 

The  way  was  long  and  dark,  for  the  moon  just 
showed  herself,  as  if  afraid,  above  the  hills.  But 
Snowflake  knew  it  well.  Had  she  not  traveled  it  seven 
times  thus  laden  ?  So  she  went  on,  with  her  face  ever 
in  one  direction.  Very  joyously  she  walked,  holding 
her  garments  well  out  of  the  dust,  that  they  might  be 
pure  when  she  arrived. 

First  were  the  streets  of  the  labyrinthine  City  of 
Hills.  Here  and  there  was  a  dim  andon,  just  aglow, 
in  an  upper  chamber.  Once  a  strain  of  music  with 
some  laughter.  The  whine  of  a  dog— a  solitary 
guardian— was  all  she  remembered  until  the  city  was 
past.  She  did  not  like  the  city.  Then  the  Mogi  road. 
That  was  better.  There  was  more  solitude.  It  was 
uphill,  past  the  bamboo  grove,  the  shrine  to  Binzuru, 
the  little  temple  of  Hoto-Gisu,  to  the  yadoya  of  the 
Celestial  Summit.  There  was  revelry  at  the  tea-house. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD  111 

Shadows  of  dancing  women  and  applauding  men  were 
moving  on  the  screens.  At  her  approach  the  tea-girls 
came  hurrying  forth  with  shrill  calls  of  invitation. 
Snowflake's  face  did  not  change,  except  to  smile  a  little 
more  ecstatically.  They  knew  her,  and  her  errand ; 
and  each  understood.  So  they  put  their  hands  rev 
erently  before  their  faces  and  retreated  to  the  wistarias, 
and  were  very  silent  until  she  was  long  past. 

Thence  the  road  was  downhill  to  the  sea.  And  the 
moon  might  have  shown  Snowflake,  even  with  her 
grudging  light,  had  she  cared  to  see,  things  very  beau 
tiful.  Below,  at  her  back,  was  the  sleeping,  glimmer 
ing  city.  Up  on  the  clouds  was  the  pink  light  of  it. 
Sloping  upward,  to  the  right  and  left,  were  terraced 
mountains.  Here  and  there  was  a  shrine  which  the 
moon  picked  out,  or  a  temple  gleaming  red,  or  an 
uplifted  tori,  or  a  pagoda— man's  punctuation  of  God's 
page.  And  all  the  vast  darkness  was  lit  with  the  lan 
terns  to  the  Blessed  Dead.  Like  myriads  of  glow 
worms  they  were,  transforming  the  mountain  into 
something  inconceivably  beautiful.  She  could  have 
seen  where  the  poor  lived,— even  such  as  she,— for 
there  would  be  but  one  lantern,  or  two,  no  more.  And 
where  the  rich  lived,  for  there  were  glowing  bunches 
and  festoons  of  them,  and  here  and  there  those  of  car- 
ven  stone  which  lined  the  entrances  to  estates.  These 
made  splendid  vistas  in  the  blackness,  and  the  whole 
of  it  glowed  tenderly  to  the  skies.  But  her  face  was 
turned  toward  the  sea.  She  saw  vaguely  only  what 
was  before  her— a  canal-like  road,  hugely  walled  and 
patched  in  the  greens  of  rice  and  bamboo  and  barley. 
Beyond,  dimly,  were  seen  the  lights  of  Mogi.  She 


112  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

shivered  a  little  as  she  thought  of  Mogi.  For  there 
once  a  sei-yo  jin— a  west-ocean  man— had  tempted 
her,  and  Ishihari,  with  a  whispered  word,  had  saved 
her.  It  was  then  and  there  that  she  had  loved  him. 
And  when  the  place  of  her  tryst  with  him  had  to  be 
selected,  she  chose  Mogi,  that  she  might  pass  through 
it  to  him  in  death  as  she  had  done  in  life.  This  was 
her  penance.  And  beyond  all,  a  ghostly  glimmer, 
was  the  beloved  sea.  Presently  she  came  to  Mogi. 
For  the  first  time  she  paused  a  little  as  her  penance 
approached.  Music  and  laughter  were  everywhere— 
laughter  that  jarred.  The  amado  were  not  up,  and 
lights  flashed  and  gleamed,  and  would  until  morning 
put  them  out.  But  there  were  no  lanterns  to  the 
Blessed  Dead.  She  remembered  that  Ishihari  had 
called  it,  on  the  day  he  had  saved  her,  a  place  of  har 
lots.  To-night  penance  was  not  joyous.  To-night 
she  could  not  pass  through  Mogi  to  Ishihari  without 
a  sense  of  contamination.  She  flitted  as  a  shadow 
around  the  village  to  the  north,  and  thus  came  to  the 
houses  of  the  fishermen  she  knew.  These— all  of 
them— slept  after  their  fishing.  But  there  were  lan 
terns  to  the  dead  here.  Their  little  hamlet  always 
slept  when  she  saw  it}  but  always  the  dead  were 
remembered. 

II 

THE  BAY  AMONG  THE  BOULDERS 

AND  so  she  came  at  last,  quite  without  weariness, 
to  her  little  bay  among  the  boulders,  and,  sinking 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD  113 

softly  to  the  earth,  looked  out  at  the  mist  upon  the 
sea.  For  this  was  her  trysting-place  with  the  soul 
of  her  dead  lover.  Together  they  had  chosen  it 
while  yet  he  lived.  And  the  gods  had  ratified  their 
choice. 

Wistfully  she  looked,  but  not  doubtfully.  It  was 
out  there,  toward  Takaboka,  in  the  green  mist,  that 
he  was  wont  to  come.  This  the  gods  who  knew 
them  both  had  granted.  The  moon  was  on  the  top 
of  the  emerald  rock,  pushing  up  from  the  sea,  where 
the  Christians  were  killed  so  many  long  years  ago— 
Takaboka.  But  on  the  one  side,  and  all  about  where 
the  sea  touched,  it  was  dark,  with  only  the  ghostly 
glimmer  of  a  wave  now  and  then.  It  was  there, 
on  the  side  away  from  the  moon,  that  the  mist 
always  rose. 

Every  year  she  came  here  at  the  Feast  of  the  Blessed 
Dead,  on  the  last  day.  Every  year  there  was  a  new 
and  more  splendid  soul-ship  to  bear  his  soul  home. 
Every  year  her  furisode  and  all  her  wedding-garments, 
from  the  nemaki  in  her  hair  to  the  gaeta  on  her  feet, 
were  new  and  pure.  Every  year  she  came  there 
immaculate  as  ice.  Yet  every  year  she  was  a  little 
more  poor,  a  little  less  in  love  with  life.  What  did  she 
do  from  year  to  year  with  her  wedding-garments? 
She  burned  them— burned  up  all  their  splendor.  The 
ashes  of  each  of  the  seven  years  which  had  passed 
since  he  died  were  ranged  in  a  little  row  in  the  pretty 
garden  of  her  house— buried  in  bronze  caskets,  the 
most  beautiful  she  could  buy.  But  they  were  also  in 
her  Beautiful  Graveyard,  and  that  was  in  her  heart. 
If  you  had  asked  her  neighbors  about  Snowflake,  they 


114:       THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

would  have  pointed  to  their  heads  to  tell  you  that  she 
was  gently  and  honorably  insane.  But  she  was  quite 
sane. 

Presently  she  rose  and  felt  her  garments.  They 
were  not  pure  enough  in  which  to  receive  her  ambas 
sador  from  heaven.  Always  it  was  thus  at  the  last— 
always  she  fancied  that  the  dust  had  soiled  them  and 
her  a  little.  It  was  the  quiet  bay.  Not  an  eye  could 
see,  unless  the  great  lantern  of  the  sea-light  away 
below  might  be  an  eye.  One  by  one  she  took  the 
pretty  garments  off  and  removed  the  dust.  Then  she 
put  them  up  on  a  boulder,  and  the  little  ship  and  the 
branch  of  shikimi  upon  the  top  of  them,  and  shyly, 
as  the  spirit  bride  she  was,  watching  the  darkness  lest 
it  might  spy  upon  her,  slipped  into  the  lapping  water. 
Slowly  she  sank  into  it,  like  some  fairy  of  another  age. 
Then  she  came  forth  and  poised  upon  the  edge,  listen 
ing  again.  And,  in  the  blackness,  she  was  like  the 
sudden  rebirth  of  the  Dragon  King's  daughter,  wait 
ing  again  for  the  vanished  Urashima— him  to  whom 
four  hundred  years  of  joy  were  but  as  one  day  with 
out  joy. 

Then  she  fancied  a  noise,  and  flew  to  the  shadow  of 
the  boulder.  Thence  she  emerged  presently,  clothed 
again. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  he  !  "  she  whispered.  "  Am  I  late  ? 
A  bride  should  not  be  late." 

She  bent  and  looked  at  the  marks  of  the  water  on 
a  rock. 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  I  am  not  late.  The  tide  is  still 
rising." 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD  115 

III 

SNOWFLAKE 

SHE  lit  a  candle  at  the  bow  of  the  ship  of  straw,  a 
tiny  bronze  censer  at  the  stern,  and  gently  pushed  it 
into  the  water,  mooring  it  to  her  own  hand  by  a  silken 
cord.  She  watched  it  coquetting  with  the  small  waves 
a  moment,  then  set  her  face  to  the  mist  out  on  the  sea. 
Presently  the  smoke  of  the  incense  formed  a  halo 
about  her  dainty  head  which  the  candle  lighted  vividly. 
But  all  about  was  darkness.  Slowly,  as  she  looked,  a 
clairvoyant  change  came  into  her  face.  The  eyes  did 
not  close,  but  they  saw  nothing  on  earth. 

"Come!"  she  whispered,  "come!  I  am  here— I, 
Snowflake.  Harai-tamai  kyome-tamae.  I  am  very 
clean,  and  to-night  I  am  again  your  bride." 

Thus  she  looked  a  long  while,  repeating  the  invoca 
tion,  whispering  the  invitation.  And  presently  she 
saw  something  out  there. 

"  Ishihari,"  she  whispered,  "  it  is  I,  your  Snowflake. 
I  am  come  with  my  soul  full  of  beautiful  thoughts  to 
speak  to  you.  All  the  year  have  I  thought  them. 
And  now,  come  closer  !  Oh,  can  you  not  come  closer  ? 
Perhaps  after  a  while.  But  that  is  strange.  See,  I 
hold  out  my  arms  for  you— I,  Snowflake.  Will  you 
not  enter?  For  to-night  we  are  in  the  Beautiful 
Graveyard  once  more,  and  there  is  newness  there. 
That  is  what  we  used  to  call  it,  even  while  you  lived 
—in  the  other  life  on  earth.  And  do  you  not  remem 
ber  the  first  night  you  came  into  my  heart  and  told 


116  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

me  about  yours  ?  You  were  dead  then  but  a  little  while, 
and  I  knew  not  but  that  you  had  already  been  reborn 
into  another  life,  a  life  away  from  mine.  But  you 
came  into  my  heart  then,  and  told  me  about  your 
Beautiful  Graveyard,  and  that  you  did  not  wish  to  be 
reborn,  that  you  might  keep  your  tryst  with  me  every 
year.  And  afterward  you  came  and  went  in  my  heart 
at  will.  And  that  was  sweeter  than  it  had  been  in  life. 
For  then  you  did  not  always  come  when  I  wished. 
But  now  you  are  there  always— always.  That,  I  think, 
is  your  home,  dear  one— is  it  not?  And  always  you 
bring  joy.  Oh,  they  ask  me  what  it  is  that  shines  in 
my  face.  And  when  I  tell  them  it  is  you,  they  smile 
and  point  to  the  forehead  as  if  I  were  mad.  But  they 
do  not  know— they  do  not  know.  They  have  no  Beau 
tiful  Graveyards— they  never  heard  of  ours. 

"  You  have  told  me  everything  which  is  buried  in 
your  Beautiful  Graveyard— everything.  It  is  vastly 
larger  than  mine,  because  everything  that  was  beauti 
ful  for  you  is  dead— everything  but  me.  But  in  my 
Graveyard  every  beautiful  thing  lives.  And  shall  I 
tell  you  again  what  I  have  in  my  Beautiful  Graveyard  ? 
Yes?  Then,  first  are  you— not  dead,  but  with  a  face 
like  a  god  and  a  voice  like  some  creature  that  speaks 
sweetly  in  the  night.  You  came  there  long  ago,  only 
I  knew  it  not.  You  came  first  as  a  little  boy  with  a 
round  head  and  eyes  which  looked  wonderingly  out 
into  a  world  you  were  not  meant  for.  No !  you  with 
your  dreams  and  your  sweetness  were  the  gods'  before 
you  were  born.  And  that  is  why  you  have  not  been 
reborn :  the  gods  wish  you  as  you  are.  And  there 
with  you  is  your  mother,  beautiful  as  the  goddess  of 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD  117 

the  sun— never  another  was  so  beautiful  as  yours; 
she  smiles  from  her  head  to  her  feet.  And  you  are 
there  when  you  got  to  be  a  man,  as  they  told  me. 
With  two  swords,  two  souls,  and  a  queue.  But  you 
never  were  a  man — you  were  always  a  god.  Perhaps 
you  were  as  that  man  they  call  Christ  beyond  the  west 
ocean—on  earth  but  for  the  sins  of  the  world.  That 
was  in  your  eyes— that  look  of  sadness.  So,  at  least, 
I  have  seen  it  pictured.  And  I  am  there  now.  I  have 
a  little  timorous  smile  for  you.  Alas!  I  am  but  a 
shadow ;  so  little  was  I  in  your  life  then.  But  next  I 
have  you  there  with  my  hands  in  yours  and  your  eyes 
in  mine.  And  you  are  asking  me  a  question  I  could  not 
answer  with  my  lips,  though  my  soul  spoke  to  yours 
even  then.  For  have  I  not  told  you,  and  have  you 
not  told  me,  how  I  went  about  the  world  seeking  a 
soul  to  match  mine,  and  how  I  found  it  not  till  you— 
you  came  ?  And  then  for  the  first  time  in  all  my  life 
I  understood,  and  likewise  you— you  understood. 
Then  I  knew  that  you  were  meant  to  mate  with  me. 
For  thus  it  is  in  this  strange  world— nothing  lives 
alone. 

"For  some  there  must  be  many  souls— even  as 
many  as  the  Lord  Shaka  gives— even  nine.  But  for 
me  and  for  you  there  was  but  one.  There  never  could 
have  been,  there  never  can  be,  another.  We  knew  the 
moment  and  the  place,  as  the  two  metals  put  side  by 
side  will  draw  together  with  a  power  of  the  gods  we 
call  magnetic. 

"I  could  not  go  through  the  city  of  my  penance 
to-night.  But  that  also  is  in  the  Beautiful  Graveyard 


118  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYAED 

—that  moment  when  your  whispered  word  saved  my 
soul,  and  when  I  gave  it  to  you,  who  had  long  pos 
sessed  it,  as  your  price,  and  you  gave  me  yours.  Then 
I  am  there  in  those  garments  of  white  which  you 
know— but  you  are  not  there.  You  are  not  there  in 
your  wedding-robes.  But  there  is  the  messenger  of 
your  death— and  then  no  more.  I  wait  and  wait  and 
wait.  And,  O  Ishihari,  I  shall  always  wait.  For  if 
you  can  linger  in  the  dark  Meido,  deny  yourself  hea 
ven,  Nirvana,  death  in  life,  absorption  into  the  essence 
of  the  Lord  of  Life,  just  that  you  may  on  the  last  day 
of  the  Feast  of  the  Blessed  Dead  keep  your  tryst 
with  me— if  you  can  do  that,  surely  I  can  wait  here  on 
the  earth.  But,  O  Ishihari,  sometimes  it  is  scarce 
to  be  borne  !  Sometimes  I  catch  myself  with  my  finger 
on  that  spot  in  the  neck  where  one  can  die  painlessly. 
Sometimes— but  then,  O  Ishihari,  I  think  of  my 
Beautiful  Graveyard  and  go  there.  Then  do  I  not 
wish  to  die.  For  you  are  there  with  all  the  joy  of  life 
in  your  face— you !  And  is  there  anything  better  in 
the  heaven  you  now  know  ?  Is  there  anything  better 
than  the  touch  of  your  hands,  the  sound  of  your  voice, 
the  look  of  your  eyes  ?  And  that  is  the  last  and  best  j 
for  I  will  not  have  you  there  dead. 

"Do  you  remember  how,  in  your  Beautiful  Grave 
yard,  you  kept  the  most  beautiful  place  for  me— oh, 
the  most  beautiful  of  all?  You  said  that  because  I 
was  snowflake  fragile,  because  I  was  the  most  exqui 
site  and  evanescent  of  them  all,  I  should  be  over  and 
above  them  all.  So  have  I  kept  mine  for  you,  because 
you  were  bravest— most  godlike.  Oh,  but  I  am 


THE  BEAUTIFUL   GRAVEYARD  119 

there  by  your  side— a  little  widow  un wedded,  whose 
hair  lies  even  now  upon  your  own  dead  knees,  except 
that  which  the  wind  blows  at  the  shrine.  I  saw  her 
come  there  into  my  Beautiful  Graveyard— the  little 
widow,  as  if  I  were  not  she.  Sad  were  her  eyes,  bowed 
was  her  head,  slow  were  her  steps.  But  that  is  beau 
tiful,  too.  Yes,  widowhood  is  very  beautiful— widow 
hood  like  mine.  For  are  not  you  there  ?  And  can  she 
not  close  her  eyes  and  feel  the  grasp  of  your  hands  ? 
Can  she  not  open  them  and  suddenly  catch  your  smile  ? 
And  even,  when  she  listens  patiently  for  long,  long 
whiles,  may  she  not  hear  your  voice?  And  that  is 
most  beautiful  of  all— to  hear  your  voice  like  the 
temple  bells,  to  hear  it  speak  my  name  again :  *  Snow- 
flake  !  Snowflake  !  Snowflake ! '  For  you  would  not 
have  the  name  my  parents  gave  me,  but  had  it  Snow- 
flake.  Ah,  do  you  not  remember  ? " 


IV 

THE  LAST  NIGHT  OP  THE  FEAST  OF  THE  BLESSED  DEAD 

SHE  leaned  slowly  out  over  the  sea.  A  sudden  and 
more  excessive  joy  possessed  her  face.  The  flame  of 
the  little  candle  flared  up  as  if  to  light  its  rapture ; 
the  incense  scented  all  the  air  anew. 

"  I  hear  it  now— I  listen— I  hear  it  now !  Ani-San ! 
Come  into  my  arms !  Come !  I  know  that  you  are 
out  there  where  the  green  mist  is.  But  why  will  you 
not  come  ?  Am  I— oh,  all  the  gods !  —am  I  no  longer 
pure  enough  for  you  who  come  back  from  heaven— 


120  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

ah,  perhaps  from  the  long  Nirvana— to  keep  your  tryst 
with  me  on  earth  ?  Oh,  come  into  my  arms  and  tell 
me  that  my  heart  must  not  break— that  still  you  keep 
your  tryst,  and  ever  will.  I  am  as  worthy  of  you  as 
I  can  be.  I  want  to  come.  But  at  the  last  Feast  of 
the  Dead,  again  you  told  me  no,  for  fear  of  the  vast 
darkness  of  the  Meido.  So  I  have  stayed  on  earth  to 
keep  the  tryst  with  you.  And  will  you  not— oh,  can 
you  not  ?  I  am  old,  and  you  are  young,  for  the  dead 
grow  no  older ;  but  my  soul  is  all  the  same.  And  it 
was  with  our  souls  that  we  loved,  was  it  not  ?  True, 
your  eyes  were  like  wells  of  love.  True,  your  forehead 
was  as  a  tablet  at  a  shrine.  True,  your  head  was 
crowned  as  was  the  godlike  soldier  Yoshitsune's.  I 
have  made  a  little  poem  for  you.  Listen ! 

"  0  love,  how  wondrous  fair 
Chill  death  hath  wrought  in  thee ! 

I  touch  thy  cloudlike  hair, 
And  in  its  shadows  see 
A  mistlike  glimmer,  such 
As,  living,  never  met  my  happy  touch. 

"  Come !  I  wish  to  tell  you  what  my  Graveyard  has 
gained  in  the  year  I  have  waited.  Do  you  know  the 
pine-tree  where  your  soul  comes  when  the  wind  is 
high  ?  Well,  it  is  there,  and  the  samisen  you  taught 
me  how  to  play.  The  little  cage  in  which  once  was  a 
bird— now  dead.  Not  the  bird  is  there,  because  it  is 
dead.  And  another  little  casket  of  ashes.  Come,  let 
my  earthly  arms  feel  you.  Ah,  you  come  !  I  see  you 
among  the  mists !  " 

She  sank  on  the  sand.    The  sea  lapped  upward  and 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD  121 

made  wet  her  wedding-garments.  The  waves  swept 
caressingly  about  her  feet.  Her  arms  went  out — out 
to  their  utmost. 

"  Oh,  come !  I  see  your  eyes  shine  now ;  I  hear 
your  step;  I  feel  your  breath,  your  hands.  Come— 
come — come  !  " 

She  slowly  closed  her  arms.  Her  head  fell  for 
ward  and  rested  as  if  upon  something  within  them. 
Thus  she  knelt,  trance-like,  speaking  no  more,  very 
long— she  knew  not  how  long.  Then  the  sun  shot  a 
single  warning  javelin  above  the  sea. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  whispered,  "  not  yet.  Yes,  when  the 
sea  shows  pink  yonder — yes.  But  give  me  the  utter 
most  moment.  Ishihari,  I  have  waited  and  toiled  all 
the  year  for  this.  I  shall  wait  and  toil  another  year 
and  another  and  another,  and  ever  when  the  Feast  of 
the  Dead  comes  again,  again  I  will  meet  you  j  again 
my  garments  will  be  new  and  clean  and  myself  pure ; 
again  I  will  open  my  arms  for  you.  And,  O  beloved, 
again  you  will  come  within  them —will  you  not  ?  And 
so  it  shall  be  till  I  meet  you  in  the  Meido.  Oh,  I  shall 
know  you  in  all  its  vastness.  For  you  will  hold  out 
your  hand  for  mine,  will  you  not  ?  And  you  will  lead 
me,  will  you  not  ?  You  who  know  the  way,  you  will 
lead  me  who  do  not  through  all  the  darkness  and  ter 
rors  into  heaven,  then  to  Nirvana,  then  to  the  bosom 
of  the  Lord  of  Life.  I  would  die  for  the  chance  of 
coming  to  you,  but  that  you  tell  me  nay;  and  that, 
because  you  might  not  see,  in  the  darkness  you 
might  miss  my  hand.  Ah,  that  is  right— very  right. 
And  I  shall  live  till  I  am  old.  For  here  I  can  be  yours 
and  you  can  be  mine  on  the  last  night  of  the  Feast  of 


122  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GRAVEYARD 

the  Blessed  Dead.  But  there  you  might  miss  my 
hand." 

Suddenly  she  moaned  and  unwillingly  opened  her 
arms. 

"Oh,  then  farewell,  my  beloved,  farewell!  The 
soul-ship  is  ready— the  tide  goes  out.  And  is  it  not 
more  beautiful  than  the  last  ?  And  so  it  shall  be  every 
year— more  and  more  beautiful. 

"  Frail  it  is,  and  its  sails  are  of  mere  gossamer. 
But  it  will  bear  you  back  to  heaven,  and  when  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  days  are  past  it  will  bring  you 
to  me  again.  Farewell ! —oh,  farewell,  my  beloved, 
but  to  come  again." 

She  let  the  silken  cord  glide  through  her  fingers, 
and  the  soul-ship  moved  out  with  the  tide.  The  little 
light  glimmered  and  danced  and  coquetted  with  the 
waters,  returning  and  then  dashing  further  away  each 
time,  until  she  could  see  it  no  more.  Only  the  smell 
of  the  incense  was  left. 

"  Ani-San,  beloved,  are  you  still  there?" 

She  strained  into  the  grayness  which  was  lighting 
from  beyond,  and  something  answered  her. 

She  smiled,  looking  straight  out  to  sea,  smiling  still 
in  the  face  of  the  risen  sun. 


LUCKY  JIM 


LUCKY  JIM 


THE  CHAIN-GANG 

AS  the  chain-gang  was  shuffling  past  it  was  stopped 
-^-  by  the  whipping-boss.  Some  one  was  to  be 
flogged.  The  boss  pointed  with  his  "cat"  to  a  spot 
a  little  in  advance  of  the  line,  and  said  briefly : 

"Lucky  Jim!" 

The  whole  line  started  with  surprise.  Jim  had 
never  been  whipped.  There  had  been  no  occasion 
for  it.  He  had  never  disobeyed  an  order  in  the  twenty 
years  of  his  confinement. 

Jim  stepped  to  the  spot  indicated,  and  at  a  motion 
of  the  boss's  thumb  the  rest  of  the  gang  went  on. 

They  stood  quite  silent— Jim  and  the  boss— till  the 
clanking  of  the  shackles  had  ceased.  Then  the 
boss  struck  the  lash  of  his  whip  into  the  dust  at  his 
feet. 

"Er— Jim— " 

The  convict  raised  his  head.     The  eyes  of  the  two 

125 


126  LUCKY  JIM 

men  met.  It  was  not  to  be  the  "  cat/'  that  was  plain. 
But  what,  then?  Jim  had  grown  almost  incapable 
of  emotion;  but  this  vague  question  came  into  his 
remnant  of  a  mind.  What  could  it  possibly  be  ?  His 
superior  was  extracting  from  his  pocket  a  document. 
Now,  as  he  unfolded  it;  Jim  could  see  a  gilt  seal  in 
the  corner. 

"  Er— Jim— yo'— pardoned." 

Jim's  heart  gave  a  leap.  But  only  because  of  the 
mystery  with  which  the  boss  had  invested  it  all.  For 
he  did  not  understand.  The  action  of  his  heart  made 
him  a  trifle  dizzy.  It  had  given  that  breathless  leap 
quite  often  of  late,  and  once  or  twice  Jim  had  won 
dered  whether  something  were  not  out  of  order  there. 
He  perceived,  presently,  that  the  whipping-boss  was 
tendering  him  the  paper.  He  took  it  gingerly— as 
one  does  a  thing  capable  of  mischief. 

"  What 's  dat  yo'  says,  marster  ? " 

"  Yo'  pardoned." 

"  Poddoned  ?    What 's  dat,  marster  ? " 

For  Jim  had  been  born  of  slave  parents,  and  had 
never  been  to  school. 

"  Don'  yo'  know  ? "  asked  the  boss,  with  a  laugh. 

Jim  shook  his  head.  The  vocabulary  of  the  mine 
was  limited.  No  one  spoke  except  upon  some  sort  of 
compulsion.  One  was  likely  to  suffer  if  one  did  it 
unwisely.  Indeed,  they  did  not  think  much.  The 
places  of  their  minds  seemed  to  become  vacant  after  a 
while.  At  first  this  was  hard,  but  finally  it  came  to 
be  a  condition  of  peace,  and  Jim  had  more  time  to  be 
bestialized  than  any  of  the  rest. 


LUCKY  JIM  127 

They  were  all  life  convicts.  But  life  was  short  here 
—to  all  but  Jim  j  he  had  outlived  all  who  were  in  the 
mine  when  he  came,  and  most  of  those  who  came 
after  he  did.  The  mine  had  been  his  home  for  twenty 
years— and  he  was  only  twenty-nine. 

"  It  means  that  yo'  kin  go  home,"  the  whipping- 
boss  explained. 

" Home— home?"  repeated  Jim,  vaguely.  "I  kin 
go  home,  kin  I  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boss ;  "  git  along,  now." 

The  convict  started  giddily  away.  Only  a  step. 
The  shackles  were  still  on  his  feet.  With  a  laugh, 
the  boss  unlocked  them  and  kicked  them  off. 

"Now,"  he  repeated,  "git  along." 

Jim  did  not  stir. 

"Well,  why  don'  yo'  git  out?" 

"  I  guess,  marster,  ef  yo'  don'  min',  I  '11  stay  a  li'P 
longer— jis  till  I  fin'  out  wher'  't  is— home,  sah." 

"  No,  yo'  won',"  said  his  boss.  "  Yo'  '11  git  out  right 
now.  Anythin'  yo'  want  tek  'long  with  yo'  ? " 

This  was  a  command,  and  Jim  obeyed  it. 

"  Yassir— ef  yo'  please,  marster." 

"  Well,  go  an'  git  it,  an'  I  '11  show  yo'  the  way  out." 

Jim  went  through  a  mile  of  the  mine  to  a  shelving 
rock  which  had  served  for  his  bed  many  years.  From 
some  hiding-place  he  drew  a  spoon.  It  was  of  silver 
and  had  on  it  a  crest.  Jim  never  ate  with  this,  but, 
like  the  other  convicts,  ate  with  his  fingers  out  of  a 
common  dish. 

But  this  spoon  had  been  found  upon  him  when  he 
was  brought  in,  and  he  kept  it  as  a  luck-bringer.  He 


128  LUCKY  JIM 

knew  nothing  now  of  its  history,  whatever  he  might 
once  have  known  concerning  it.  He  had  been  sub 
jected  to  a  good  deal  of  ridicule  about  the  luck-bring 
ing  capacity  of  this  spoon,  but  he  clung  to  it,  believ 
ing  that  some  day  it  would  bring  him  some  kind  of 
luck— he  did  not  know  what.  It  was  for  this  they 
called  him,  in  irony,  "  Lucky  Jim." 

The  whipping-boss  met  him  where  they  had  parted, 
and  Jim  followed  him  to  the  shaft. 

As  the  cage  dashed  into  the  sudden  light  at  the 
top,  the  convict  gave  a  cry  and  put  his  hands  over  his 
eyes.  He  kept  them  there,  for  this  first  burst  of  the 
marvelous  light  of  day  had  blinded  him. 

His  conductor  led  him  to  the  door,  and  flinging  his 
arm  outward  at  the  world  beyond,  as  if  he  might  pos 
sess  it  all,  said  : 

"  There— yo'  free.  That  is  the  way  to  the  station. 
Three  miles.  Yo'  take  the  train  there  for  the  city.  I 
expect  yo'  '11  find  yo'  folks  there.  Now  git  along." 

He  pushed  the  negro  into  the  road  and  closed  the 
door.     Jim  was  quite  inert.     He  had  neither  heard 
nor  heeded  what  was  said.     He  was  taking  his  first  % 
look,  through  his  nearly  blind  eyes,  at  a  world  he  had 
utterly  forgotten. 


II 

MASTER  GOD 

THERE  was  a  patch  of  resinous  wood  just  beyond, 
the  shade  and  color  of  which  were  grateful  to  his  eyes. 


LUCKY  JIM  129 

The  sun  and  the  brazen  heavens  were  very  cruel  to 
them.  Presently  he  could  see  that  the  fields  also  were 
green,  and,  stooping  down,  he  found  that  there  were 
flowers  under  his  feet.  He  moved  so  that  he  would 
not  crush  them,  then  softly  caressed  them.  He  dimly 
renewed  a  vast  love  he  had  once  had  for  flowers  and 
birds.  In  the  mine  no  one  had  spoken  or  thought 
of  flowers. 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  he  wandered  furtively 
from  one  thing  to  another,  touching  those  he  could 
not  see  well,  but  never  getting  very  far  away  from 
the  shaft-house,  careful  always  of  the  flowers.  When 
night  fell  he  shuddered  at  the  uninclosed  vastness 
above  and  about  him.  He  tried  to  get  into  the  shelter 
of  the  shaft-house,  but  this  was  denied  him.  The 
patch  of  resinous  wood  seemed  the  next  best  place, 
and  there  he  lay  upon  his  back  and  breathlessly 
watched  the  forgotten  stars  come  out.  And  presently 
he  slept— then  suddenly  woke  to  find  the  moon  peer 
ing  upon  him  under  the  trees. 

He  had  forgotten  about  the  moon,  too,  and  the 
superstition  of  the  mine  made  her  a  demon.  He 
leaped  up.  The  planet  appeared  to  lunge  toward 
him.  He  tried  to  move,  but  his  heart  was  battling 
madly  against  his  ribs,  and  he  slowly  subsided,  fight 
ing,  to  the  ground.  Presently  he  could  raise  his 
head  a  little,  and,  taking  his  arm  from  before  his 
eyes,  he  looked  out.  His  enemy  was  still  watchfully 
there. 

Suddenly  he  thought  this  must  be  the  God  of  whom 
some  one  who  had  come  to  the  mine  years  ago  had 
tried  to  teach  them.  For  the  missionary's  God  had 


130  LUCKY  JIM 

been  a  God  of  terror.  He  rose  to  his  knees  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  piteously.  It  was  all  he  had 
strength  to  do. 

"  Oh,  Marster  Gord,  lem  me  go  !  I  am'  done  not'in'. 
I  ain'  kill  no  one— 'deed,  Marster  Gord,  I  am'.  Dey 
put  me  in  fo'  it,  but,  'deed,  Marster  Gord,  I  ain'  done 
it,  an'  I  don'  know  who  did.  Why,  Marster  Gord,  I 
was  jis  a  chil'  den— jis  a  chil',  Marster  Gord !  Don' 
you  'member?" 

But  his  prayers  availed  him  nothing.  The  moon, 
as  she  set,  more  and  more  redly,  appeared  to  press 
malevolently  upon  him.  He  began  to  back  cautiously 
away  through  the  wood.  Then,  as  his  heart  stopped 
rioting,  he  turned  and  ran  madly,  looking  back  over 
his  shoulder.  His  enemy  followed  him.  He  ran  on, 
more  and  more  feebly,  until,  with  a  plunge  downward, 
the  moon  disappeared.  He  stopped  then. 

Gradually  he  understood  that  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  afraid  of.  The  stars  seemed  more  friendly, 
and,  at  all  events,  they  were  very  far  away.  But  he 
would  not  sleep  again,  though  his  eyes  closed  now 
and  then,  and  he  could  scarce  drag  his  feet. 

So  he  kept  on  along  the  damp,  earthy-smelling 
road,  with  more  comfort  as  it  grew  darker.  He  liked 
the  darkness  best,  for  he  had  always  rested— slept — 
in  the  mine  when  they  put  the  lamps  out.  And  he 
was  not  so  blind  at  night.  The  night  had  been  his 
day  down  there.  Finally  he  took  his  arm  away  from 
his  eyes,  and  walked  on  right  merrily. 


LUCKY  JIM  131 

III 

THE  SINISTER  SUN 

BUT  again,  suddenly,  as  lie  crossed  the  sharp  brow 
of  a  hill,  a  something  more  sinister  than  the  moon 
barred  his  way.  And  his  heart  leaped  up  again  aud 
choked  him  so  that  he  could  not  run.  Besides,  a 
wagon  coming  the  other  way  blocked  the  narrow  road. 
Jim  squeezed  himself  against  the  bank  at  the  side  to 
let  the  wagon  go  by. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ? "  asked  the  wagoner. 

"  That,"  said  Jim,  pointing  fearfully  at  the  rising 
sun. 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  man,  with  a  curious  look  at  him, 
and  then  a  grin.  "  Where  yo'  go'n'  to  1 n 

"  The  city,"  repeated  Jim,  remembering  the  whip 
ping-boss's  words. 

"  Git  in,"  invited  the  teamster. 

Jim  did,  after  some  hesitation.  He  was  not  much 
acquainted  with  wheeled  vehicles,  and  he  did  not  quite 
trust  this  one.  But  it  was  a  choice  of  dangers,  and 
he  thought,  primitively,  that  the  teamster  would  not 
be  likely  to  go  into  danger. 

Then,  as  the  marvel  of  daybreak  developed,  they 
traveled  over  and  among  billows  of  awesome  mist. 
About  him,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  was  a  white,  mys 
terious,  shut-in  cloudland.  Above  were  a  few  dim 
stars.  Had  they  left  the  earth?  Was  the  teamster, 
after  all,  an  evil  spirit  ?  If  he  should  leave  the  wagon 
would  he  fall  down — down  to  earth  ?  And  what  then  ? 


132  LUCKY  JIM 

Terror  possessed  him  again.  He  looked  back.  There 
was  a  patch  of  earth  discernible  in  the  rear.  To  his 
dim  eyes  it  was  very  far  away.  But  it  was  better  to 
try  to  reach  this  than  to  go  on  further  into  the  clouds. 
He  leaped  out,  and  lay  shocked  and  stunned  upon  the 
ground.  The  man  laughed  and  drove  on,  shaking  his 
head  puzzledly.  He  looked  back  presently  and  said : 
"  Crazy,  I  expect." 

But  Jim!  Was  he  wrong  about  the  clouds t  As 
he  lay  there  he  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  some  vast- 
ness  with  illimitable  white  vapors  stretching  away 
everywhere.  Was  he  above  the  sky  ?  But  at  last  the 
mists  uplifted  and  rolled  away  like  phalanges  of  be 
lated  ghosts,  and  the  wet  earth  crept  out  as  from 
some  guilty  hiding.  To  Jim  it  was  quite  like  the 
morning  of  creation — a  new  heavens  and  a  new 
earth— until  he  saw  the  wagon  winding  about  below 
him. 

He  remembered  that  the  man  had  said  he  was 
going  to  the  city,  and  he  followed  him.  That  was 
where  the  boss  had  told  him  to  go.  But  very  slowly ; 
for  he  was  conscious  of  a  pain  at  his  heart  now  whicfl 
cut  his  breath  into  gasps.  But  thus  presently  in 
crossing  another  hill,  he  came  upon  the  city.  He 
threw  his  arm  up  to  his  eyes  in  fresh  dismay.  The 
sun  was  plating  its  roofs  and  spires  with  glittering 
gold.  Was  this  the  city  of  which  the  missionary  had 
spoken  ?  Had  it  gates  of  pearl  ? 

Then  this  uplifting  and  scattering  of  the  night,  as 
if  it  were  slipping  out  of  his  fingers  without  his  leave. 
Who  lit  up  the  day  ?  And  why  did  it  come  creeping, 
instead  of  in  one  flash,  as  in  the  mine?  He  was  not 


LUCKY  JIM  133 

glad  for  the  day.  It  made  his  eyes  hurt  and  his 
blindness  come  again. 

IV 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  NIGHT 

HE  hid  until  night  fell  and  he  could  see  the  city  glow 
upon  the  clouds.  Then  he  went  down  into  it. 

All  night  he  slunk  in  and  out  of  the  alleys,  watch 
ing  for  some  one  in  the  careless  crowd  who  might  be 
responsible  for  it  all.  He  looked  for  some  one  god 
like  and  in  flaming  apparel— one  whom  he  should 
know  at  once.  Very  tall,  perhaps,  and  with  the  face 
of  a  deity.  But  there  appeared  to  be  no  one— no  more 
than  for  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun.  He  lin 
gered  in  the  darkness  of  his  alley  until  the  busy 
street  grew  quiet,  then  quieter,  and  when  there  was 
not  a  soul  in  it  he  came  forth.  All  the  night  he  had 
the  city  to  himself,  and,  presently,  walked  it  with  an 
air  of  possession— quite  as  if  it  had  been  given  over 
to  him  by  intention. 

Yes,  he  liked  the  night  best.  And  so  as  the  day 
again  came  forth  and  took  the  city  he  retreated  from 
it  and  found  a  lair  under  the  broken  arch  of  a  bridge. 

But  night  by  night  he  would  sally  forth  and  possess 
the  city. 

And  one  night  he  saw  a  whitewashed  cabin  wedged 
in  between  two  tall  buildings,  and  stopped.  All  night 
he  stood  opposite  the  cabin  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  Then  he  began  to  remember. 

"  Useter  be  er  vine—" 


134  LUCKY  JIM 

He  could  n't  see  whether  there  was  a  vine  now  or 
not  at  that  distance,  so  he  crossed  over.  The  vine 
was  there,  clambering  over  a  tumble -down  porch. 

"  Useter  be  er  bu'd-nes'  in  de  vine,"  mused  Jim,  as 
he  approached  and  put  his  hand  into  the  foliage. 

With  a  shrill  note  a  bird  flew  out. 

"  Yo'  fool  niggah,  whad  yo'  doin'  ? "  said  a  sharp  old 
voice  behind  Jim.  "Lena  my  Jim's  bu'd  alone  or 
I  '11-" 

Jim  flew  round  and  jerked  off  his  decrepit  hat.  It 
was  an  old  negro  woman  with  a  pail  and  scrubbing- 
brush.  For  a  moment  the  two  eyed  each  other,  Jim 
shifting  his  hat  diffidently  from  one  hand  to  the 
other.  The  old  woman  prepared  to  scrub. 

"  Go  'long,  niggah ;  I 's  got  wo'k  ter  do— I  ain'  go'n' 
fool  no  time  wid  yo'.  Go  'long,  now— an'  don'  yo'  fool 
no  mo'  with  my  Jim's  bu'd  or  yo  '11  git  in  trouble  wid 
;is  mudder." 

Jim  did  not  move.     Presently — 

"  Don'  yo'  know  me,  mammy  ? " 

The  negress  looked  up.     Then  she  laughed. 

"Don'  I  know  you?  Well,  Gord  er-mighty!  Yo' 
;spect  me  ter  know  you  ?  Wha'  yo'  come  f  um  ?  Gord 
er-mighty !  Don'  I  know  you  ?  Sich  er  spiciinen  as 
you !  "  She  laughed  again. 

Jim  began  to  retreat. 

"Well,  who  is  yo',  anyhow?  Ain'  yo'  got  no 
tongue  ? " 

"  I 's  Jim,"  said  the  convict. 

"Which  Jim?" 

"Yo' Jim." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  an  amazed  instant, 


LUCKY  JIM  135 

and  then  clasped  her  knees  and  rolled  over  in  an 
ecstasy  of  mirth. 

"Sich  er  spicimen  as  you!  Mebbe  yo'  my  Jim's 
gran'daddy.  I  's  oF  myse'f ;  but  you !  Gord  er- 
mighty!  I  Aspect  yo'  mos'  er  thousan'  y'ars  oF— ain 
yo',  now  ?  Sich  er  spicimen  ter  call  itse'f  my  Jim  !  n 

She  laughed  again  and  turned  to  her  work. 

Jim  had  never  thought  of  this.  He  put  his  hands 
up  to  his  scant  white  hair  and  turned  away. 

"  Yassum— yassum,"  he  said  humbly. 

He  was  so  forlorn  that  the  old  woman  pitied  him. 

"  Look-a  yere,  oF  man ;  who  yo'  b'long  to  ?  Ain'  yo' 
got  no  folks?" 

"No  'm,"  said  Jim ;  "no  7m." 

"  Well,  yo'  look  right  po'ly,  oP  man.  Yo'  oughter 
have  some  one  tek  keer  yo'." 

Jim  began  to  shuffle  blindly  away. 

She  was  moved  by  his  note  of  abjectness. 

"  Look-a  yere,"  she  called  after  him ;  "  yo'  gwine  ter 
come  right  in  dish  yere  house  an'  git  some  breakf  us', 
anyhow.  Yo'  ain'  had  nary  breakfus'  fo'  er  week,  by 
de  looks  ob  yer.  Dis  is  my  Jim's  day,  an'  I  don'  sen' 
no  one  away  hongry  on  my  Jim's  day.  I  'spec's  him 
home  ter-day,  ol'  man— my  Jim.  'Spect  him  ary 
minute." 


SUCH  A  SPECIMEN  ! 

SHE  pushed  him  into  the  house,  into  a  chair,  where 
he  had  an  ambrosial  breakfast,  though  it  was  only 


136  LUCKY  JIM 

ham  and  eggs ;  then  she  pushed  him  to  a  bench  and 
bade  him  sleep,  talking  all  the  while  about  Jim.  He 
could  not  sleep  for  this. 

"  He  gwine  ter  come  now— yassir !  In  'bout  a  hour ! 
Aha,  ha,  ha !  How  come  yo'  think  yo'  my  Jim  ?  Out 
yo'  head,  I  Aspect.  An'  yo'  mos'  blin',  po'  ol'  man ! 
When  Jim  come— yo'  like  fo'  see  my  Jim?" 

She  brought  a  photograph  of  himself  and  held  it 
close  before  his  eyes. 

"  Gre't  boy,  dat !  Jis  twenty-nine  ter-day.  Always 
Aspect  'im  on  'is  birthday.  'Cause  I  always  as'  de 
gub'ner  to  poddon  him  so 's  'e  kin  git  yere  on  'is  birth 
day.  So  I  's  always  ready  fo'  'im  on  'is— I  's  axt 
ebery  gub'ner  we 's  had  sence  'e  went  in  to  poddon  'im 
on  'is  birthday,  an'  dey  all  dunno  'bout  it  tell  dish 
yere  las'  one.  But  he— he  ax'  me  er  lot  er  questions, 
an'  I  guv  'im  mo'  answers  dan  he  ax'  f  o'.  Den  he  say 
he 's  er-gwine  ter  sen'  f  o'  Jim's  ricord  an'  lem  me  know. 
Well,  he  ain'  lem  me  know.  But  he  's  er-gwine  ter 
poddon  him  dis  time  sho  's  yo'  bo'n— fo'  Jim's  ricord 's 
er-gwine  ter  save  him.  He  ain  done  no  h'am— my 
Jim  ain',  an'  de  gub'ner  gwine  fin'  dat  out  soon  's  he 
sen'  fo'  Jim's  ricord." 

Her  guest  asked  a  timorous  question.  He  turned 
his  head  away  as  he  did  it : 

"  Yo'  think  yo'  gwine  know  him  when  yo'  see— him  ? " 

The  old  woman  turned  upon  him  in  specious  wrath. 

"  Yo'  axin'  Jim's  mudder  ef  she  's  er-gwine  know  her 
own  Jim  !  Her  li'l'  baby !  Why,  yo'  ol'  spicimen,  I 
got  a  min'  to  put  yo'  out  dish  yere  house !  Jim's 
mudder  not  know  'er  Jim !  n 

The  convict  cowered. 


LUCKY  JIM  137 

"  Twenty  y'ars— "  he  ventured. 

"  Gord  er-mighty !  I  don'  keer  ef  it 's  er  thousan' ! 
I 's  er-gwine  know  him  de  minute  my  eyes  light  on  him." 

"  Yassum,"  said  the  humble  guest,  with  finality. 

"  I  pray  de  good  Gord  tell  he  's  jis  'bleeged  ter  sen' 
him  back  ter  me." 

"  De  good  Gord  ? n  questioned  the  convict. 

"  Yas.  Don'  yo'  know  him  ?  Yo'  mus'  be  er  wicked 
oP  spicimen  ef  yo'  don'  know  de  good  Gord." 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"  Don1  yo'  know  him  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Jim ;  "  not  de  good  Gord." 

"  Well,  he  knows  you— he  does,"  said  his  mother. 

Again  Jim  shook  his  head. 

There  was  a  noise  at  the  door,  and  the  old  woman 
ran  outward.  When  she  returned  Jim  was  guiltily 
replacing  the  warped  little  mirror. 

"Thought  I  toP  yo'  a  lie  erbout  yo'  oP  mug,  hah  ? 
Yo'  jis  wait  tell  yo;  see  my  Jim !  He  's  er  man, 
he  is— jis  twenty-nine  ter-day.  No  sich  er  spicimen—" 

Jim  was  slowly  retreating.  She  hastened  him  a  little. 

"  Yas,  git  erlong,  oP  man.  I  got  ter  git  er  dinner 
fo'  my  Jim— git  erlong.  He  ain'  come  yit,  but  he  's 
er-gwine  ter  come  sho  's  yo'  lib.  I  got  ter  feelin'  in 
my  breas'  ter-day  dat  he  is.  Git  erlong." 

VI 

THE  PAIN  AT  JIM'S  HEART 

SHE  pushed  him  out  and  closed  the  door. 
And  Jim  went  quite  cheerfully.    For  it  had  dawned 


138  LUCKY   JIM 

upon  his  slow  intellect  that  it  was  better  thus— that 
she  should  wait— die  waiting— than  that  she  should 
learn  that  such  a  specimen  as  he  was  her  Jim. 

Nevertheless  his  feet  had  been  very  light,  and  his 
heart  had  stopped  thumping  as  he  had  crossed  the 
street  and  put  his  hand  into  the  nest  that  had  always 
been  there.  And  now  his  feet  dragged  heavily,  and 
that  constricting  pain  was  again  at  his  heart. 

When  he  had  reached  an  uninhabited  space  he  knew 
well,  he  looked  furtively  about,  and,  finding  no  one  in 
sight,  sat  down  upon  a  stone  where  he  was  wont  to  rest. 
He  sought  and  found  the  paper  with  the  gilt  seal,  and 
looked  at  it  long  and  painfully,  turning  it  curiously 
this  way  and  that  (he  could  not  read).  Then  he  began 
to  tear  it,  but  stopped  in  awe,  and  finally  placed  it 
beneath  the  stone. 

Later  in  the  day  they  found  him  in  his  lair,  uncon 
scious,  with  his  hand  gripping  the  place  of  his  heart, 
and  terror  on  his  face.  They  took  him  to  the  hospital. 

Toward  evening  an  old  negro  woman  came  stormily 
up  the  stairs— taking  one  step  at  a  time  and  talking 
to  Jim  as  she  came. 

"  Jim !  Yo'  fool  niggah,  I 's  f oun'  yo'  at  las',  has  1 1 
Jim  ! "  It  was  the  shrill  treble  which  dams  up  tears. 
"  Fo'  why  yo'  put  yo7  ol'  mudder  to  all  dat  trouble  ? 
Jim  !  Yo'  Jim  !  "  Terror  broke  through  here.  "  Fo' 
why  yo'  don'  answer  yo'  oF  mudder  ?  Fo'  why  yo'  di'n' 
say  yo'  my  Jim?  I  foun'  de  spoon  yo'  dropped— an' 
den  I  gits  de  gub'ner's  letter— de  spoon  I  got  ob  little 
missy.  Yo'  Jim !  Fo'  why  yo'  don'  answer  me  ? " 
Her  voice  broke  with  agony  now. 

"Jim— Jim— Jim!     Speak  ter  me.     Jis  ter  year 


LUCKY  JIM  139 

yo'  voice.  I  don'  keer,  Jim,  ef  yo'  is  ol' !  I  don'  keer 
ef  yo'  is  wrinkle— an'  gray— an'  blin' !  I  don'  keer  fo' 
not'in'  'cep'  jis  'at  yo'  's— my  Jim."  She  was  within  a 
few  steps  of  the  bed  on  which  he  lay.  Her  voice 
softened  wondrously  as  she  came— now  gently,  on 
her  toes.  "  Jim,  I 's  er-gwine  tek  yo'  home  and  nuss 
you.  Oh,  I  kin  do  it,  Jim.  Yo'  knows  dat,  ef  yo' 
'members  anything.  An'  we  's  gwine  to  lib  tergedder 
all  de  res'—  Oh,  Jim,  I  wan'  ter  lub  yo'  oncet  mo' ! 
Jim,  I 's  waited  fo'  yo'— waited— seems  lak  my  ol'  a'ms 
is  hongry  an'  thirsty  fo'  yo'.  Jim,  yere  I  is.  Jim—" 

They  had  carelessly  told  her  he  was  up  there.  As 
she  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  stood  directly 
over  Jim's  cot. 

He  was  dead. 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS 
DAWN-DREAM 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS 
DAWN-DREAM 


ABOUT  AN  INCH  PAST  SEVEN  IN  THE  MORNING 

1%/TISS  DAWN-DREAM  was  embroidering— I  do  not 
-*-»-•-  know  what,  exactly.  It  would  belong  to  a  trous 
seau  presently— when  completed.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
furisode.  The  shoji  were  closed— for  this  was  secret 
work,  and  close  at  hand  were  other  shoji. 

Just  outside  was  a  mite  of  a  cherry-tree,  skilfully 
gnarled  to  look  like  much  more  of  a  cherry-tree.  It 
had  a  thousand  huge  pink  blossoms  thick-studded  on 
its  small  branches.  But  a  bird  had  found  standing-room 
among  them.  Now  he  trilled  a  note  which  made  Miss 
Dawn-Dream  drop  the  furisode— if  that  is  what  it  was 
—and  fly  to  the  shoji.  These  she  opened  and  bowed 
to  the  bird. 

"O  august  first  robin,"  she  whispered,  "do  you 
announce  the  spring  ? " 

The  bird  looked  curiously  into  her  apartment. 

Dawn-Dream  thought  of  the  furisode. 

"  You  must  not  look  at— that,  robin ! " 

143 


144       THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"  What  can  an  excellent  little  bird  know  about— 
wedding-things  ? n 

But  the  bird  looked  very  wise. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  my  honorable  wedding  you  an 
nounce  ? "  whispered  the  girl,  laughing. 

The  bird  nodded  gravely. 

"  But— I  have  something  to  do— before ! " 

The  robin  pecked  at  a  blossom.  He  liked  Dawn- 
Dream.  Everybody  did. 

"  You  will  wait?" 

The  bird  satisfied  her  that  he  would. 

In  Japan,  you  know,  birds  are  people  of  more  con 
sequence  than  they  are  here. 

It  was  not  five  feet  aross  the  tiny  garden  to  the  other 
shoji  I  have  mentioned.  One  of  these  had  also  opened. 
A  face  had  appeared.  Then  a  hand.  In  this  was  a 
brush.  The  artist  also  bowed  to  the  bird.  Then  he 
saw  Miss  Dawn-Dream,  and  began  to  close  his  shoji 
and  to  pretend  that  he  had  not.  For  he  had  looked 
into  his  fianceVs  holy  of  holies— and  this  was  exces 
sively  improper !  Men  had  been  killed  for  this. 

But— Dawn-Dream  smiled  at  him!  He  halted— 
questioned— there  was  no  one  to  see— opened  his  shoji 
a  little!  Dawn-Dream  smiled  more.  Further,  the 
shoji!  Until  he  stood  brazenly  revealed!  Miss 
Dawn-Dream  made  a  little  obeisance.  The  bird  looked 
unbelievingly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"It  was  spring,"  said  the  young  artist,  answering 
her  question  to  the  bird. 

"Yes." 

Now  she  should  have  bowed  deeply— deeply,  and 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM       145 

closed  her  shoji,  slowly.     This  the  bird  expected.     But 
it  did  not  happen. 

"  As  long  as  I  stand  this  way  he  cannot  see  within 
—the  furisode,"  was  her  curious  excuse  to  the  bird— , 
in  whispers— so  that  he,  and  not  the  artist,  might 
hear. 

But  she  did  not  think  how  pretty  she  might  be — 
framed  by  the  shoji,  like  a  kakemono  freshly  unrolled 
for  the  young  artist— until  she  looked  at  him  again. 
Then  she  asked  of  the  things  in  his  face : 

"What,  excellent  Suishu?" 

"  I  observe  a  celestial  goddess ! n 

Now  certainly  she  would  go ! 

Instead  she  spoke  back  to  the  daring  artist : 

"  They  bloom  to-day." 

"  Here  1 "    He  meant  goddesses. 

Dawn-Dream  looked  toward  the  tree. 

"Here." 

"  Here  the  sun  shines  augustly  always !  " 

Dawn-Dream  smiled  ecstatically. 

"Always!" 

But  the  girl  meant  more  than  even  he  did.  The 
bird  chirruped  her  a  small  note  of  warning.  The  artist 
must  have  understood  a  little.  He  said : 

"  Because  here  is  the  goddess ! " 

The  girl  chanted : 

* '  In  the  spring 
It  often  happens 
Men  to  maidens 
Speak  dear  things." 

He  begged  her  pardon.    Was  it  possible  ?    He  put 

his  hand  to  his  ear. 
10 


146       THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 
She  answered  with  another  : 

"  In  the  spring 
A  maiden  wonders 
Why  she  has  not 

Nest  and 


They  laughed  together—  very  timorously.  I  hope, 
as  you  see  how  the  ice  is  breaking,  you  do  not  forget 
how  daring  all  this  was—  in  Japan.  The  bird  did  not. 
He  was  receiving  a  series  of  debilitating  shocks.  Why 
could  not  people  without  feathers  behave  like  people 
with  feathers—  precisely  as  they  ought  ?  I  hope  you 
do  not  forget  how  dull  and  proper  the  artist  was—  yet 
how  fascinated  j  how  subtle  Miss  Dawn-Dream  was— 
yet  how  determined. 

"To-day  the  cherries  should  bloom  everywhere," 
said  the  artist  (whose  name,  it  is  time  you  should 
know,  was  Mr.  Eock-Crystal)  ;  "  it  is  the  day  of  the 
garden-party  of  the  Celestial  Empress." 

At  the  name  of  the  Empress  both  kotowed,  and 
the  bird,  for  the  first  time,  approved  their  communion. 

"They  should  bloom  —  yes  !  "  said  Dawn-Dream. 

They  bowed  to  each  other  and  laughed. 

Now  this  was  a  cunning  saying.  The  cherries  do 
always  bloom  on  the  day  of  the  garden-party  of  the 
Empress.  But  if  the  cherries  are  not  ready  to  bloom 
on  that  day  the  party  waits  !  You  do  not  go,  notwith 
standing  your  command,  until  a  stentorian  messenger 
bangs  at  your  shoji  and  informs  you  that  the  imperial 
blossoms  condescend  to  receive  the  imperial  court  ! 

"  And  that  day/'  sighed  the  girl,  "  everybody  does 
daring  things  !  " 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        147 

The  dull  artist  wondered  a  moment. 

He  had  apprehended  her  so  instantly  that  perhaps 
she  would  think  I  am  mistaken  about  his  dullness. 
But  wait ! 

"  Do  you,  divine  one,  wish  to  do  a  daring  thing  ? " 

"Yes!" 

She  flung  it  at  him  in  a  way  to  appal  the  bird. 

But  just  then  came  a  mighty  rattling  of  the  artist's 
other  shoji.  And  Miss  Dawn-Dream  could  not  help 
hearing— even  if  she  had  wished  to  help  it,  which  I  do 
not  believe— Mr.  Rock-Cry stal  being  bidden  to  the 
Imperial  Gardens ! 

Now,  again,  Dawn-Dream  should  have  closed  her 
shoji  and  pretended  that  she  had  heard  nothing  and 
that  Rock-Crystal  would  not  return  to  the  shoji  he  had 
left  open  to  indicate  that  he  would.  But  all  Dawn- 
Dream  did  was  to  rush  back  and  put  the  furisode  out 
of  sight,  and  then  return  and  stand  just  as  if  she  had 
not  moved— putting  out  her  tongue  a  little  at  the  scan 
dalized  bird. 

Rock-Crystal  looked  guilty. 

"  You ! n  reproached  the  girl,  "  who  do  not  wish  to 
do  anything  honorably  outrageous  !  You  !  " 

The  artist  displayed  his  card— nearly  a  yard  square 
—by  way  of  saying  that  it  was  a  command  ! 

"I  am  honorably  obliged  to  go." 

"I  forgot  that  you  were  a  samurai— with  swords— 
and  a  queue— and  I  only  a—" 

"  Goddess !  "  smiled  her  lover. 

"No!" 

Miss  Dawn-Dream  stamped  her  foot. 

He  repeated  his  sacrilege. 


148        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

"  A  goddess !     And  I  have  not  power  to  make  you—" 

"  What  ? "  asked  the  artist,  breathlessly. 

"  Take  me !  " 

After  the  shock  the  artist  said : 

"  You  shall  go ! " 

«Ifl> 

"If  I  die  for  it!" 

"  Oh ! " 

Dawn-Dream  held  up  a  finger  and  looked  f  earsomely 
backward  lest  her  aunt — or  Kanzashi-San — might 
have  heard.  Or  was  it  only  a  cunning  pretense  of 
danger?  Peril  makes  brave  men  braver.  And  the 
young  samurai  was  scowling  as  all  his  ancestors  did 
in  their  armed  portraits. 

"  You  dare  not ! n  whispered  Miss  Dawn-Dream, 
hugely,  across  the  tiny  garden. 

" I  dare ! " 

Back  in  a  more  huge  whisper : 

"You-dare?" 

One  should  have  seen  Dawn-Dream's  eyes  then ! 

"Bah!" 

The  brave  young  artist  crossed  the  tiny  garden  as% 
if  each  pebble  were  an  explosive. 

The  robin  stared  and  followed  him  with  one  out 
raged  eye  while  he  tried  to  keep  the  girl  in  the  other. 

"  Ssh ! — ssh ! — ssh !  —  ssh !  "  at  each  step,  like  a  stage 
villain. 

Dawn-Dream  closed  her  shoji  so  that  only  her  nose 
and  one  eye  could  be  seen. 

"  Listen !  "  Rock-Crystal  had  to  come  very  close. 
It  was  treason  he  was  compassing.  The  furisode  was 
out  of  sight— if  that  is  what  it  was.  But  the  lovely 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        149 

flower-perfume  of  the  room— and  of  the  girl  too!  — 
breathed  out  through  the  shoji  upon  him.  "I  will 
change  my  name  to  yours.  See—"  He  had  brought  a 
brush  dipped  in  red.  He  showed  her— on  the  palm 
of  his  hand— how  it  could  be  done  by  the  transposition 
of  a  Chinese  character.  The  young  artist  was  very 
wise— in  Chinese. 

"  And  you  ? "  asked  the  disappointed  girl. 

"Me?    I  shall  paint." 

"The  command  is  for— one?" 

"  Always  for  but  one." 

"  Pardon  me ;  I  do  not  wish  to  go  like  an  excellent 
thief  in  a  graveyard,"  said  the  girl,  with  sudden  haugh 
tiness. 

The  artist  felt  hurt. 

"  I  am  a  goddess !  " 

Now  the  girl  laughed. 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

This  was  true.  The  young  artist  was  very  wise  in 
Chinese,  but  very  dull  about  women— precisely  as  I 
have  told  you.  He  began  to  retreat— backward- 
dropping  the  color  from  his  brush  like  splashes  of 
blood.  Then  he  had  a  thought. 

"  You  did  not  mean— you— me  t  " 

The  girl  nodded  saucily. 

It  was  unbelievable.  But  he  was  brave —when  once 
lie  understood — about  women. 

"  I  will  take  you  to-night !     To  Mukojima !  " 

Dawn-Dream  was  interested. 

"  Nothing  is  so  augustly  divine  as  the  cherries  by  the 
light  of  the  vast  moon.  It  is  for  goddesses !  " 

"  And  my  aunt  and  Kanzashi-San  also  ? " 


150        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

"  Certainly !     Your  aunt  and  Miss  Hair-Pin !  " 

" They  are  not— goddesses?" 

"No." 

Such,  a  dull  artist— about  women— when  he  did  not 
understand ! 

"  Pardon  me,  very  excellent  Suishu  •  I  do  not,  either, 
care  for  the  cherries  by  moonlight— with  Miss  Aunt 
and  Miss  Hair-Pin." 

Now— did  he  understand  ? 

No !     Such  a  very  dull  artist ! 

"  Good  morning,  excellent  Suishu." 

She  began  to  close  the  shoji. 

The  bird  chirped  his  satisfaction. 

"  I  am  thinking !  " 

Suishu  put  up  his  hand  to  prevent  the  closing  of  the 
screen.  It  continued  on  its  way  remorselessly. 

"  You  would  not  go  without  them  ?     You— me  f  " 

Through  the  last  half -inch  spoke  Mr.  Rock-Crystal. 

The  shoji  opened  a  little.  Miss  Dawn-Dream's  head 
nodded. 

"  Shaka !     No  one  has  ever—" 

The  shoji  closed.  Through  the  last  inch  or  two 
again  spoke  Suishu : 

"Yes!" 

His  one  word  made  the  shoji  open  to  its  full.  Oki- 
Yume  dropped  to  her  knees  so  that  their  faces  were 
quite  on  the  same  plane.  She  looked  backward,  then 
beckoned  him  a  little  closer.  She  had  to  whisper  very 
softly.  The  bird  peered  with  shocked  eyes  under  the 
branch  at  them. 

"  Goo-Goo-San-" 

The  artist  tried  to  stop  her.     The  American  girl  and 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        151 

the  fearful  things  she  had  done, — and  left  undone,— 
according  to  his  code ! 

"  I  will  not  stop !  There !  You  have  given  me 
leave— now !  I  shall  speak— anything  !  There  is  no 
one  to  hear.  There  will  be  no  one  to  see— at  Muko- 
jima !  You  are  shocked  ?  I  shall  make  eyes  at  you 
then  !  There  !  She  taught  me !  I  can  make  eyes !  " 

She  showed  him  that  she  could. 

"  She  said  that  she  would  not  be  excellently  married 
until  she  had  done  something  outrageous.  She  wanted 
to  put  her  feet  on  a  table  and  smoke.  I  do  not." 

"What  is  the  outrageous  thing  you  wish  to  do?" 
asked  the  frightened  Suishu. 

"Love!" 

"What  is  that?" 

"  This  and  this  and  this  !  " 

Certain  wild  movements  with  her  arms,  and,  at  the 
last,  something  queer  with  her  lips. 

The  artist  only  stared— vastly  fascinated,  but  dull 
as  ever. 

"  Oh,  no  one  knows  how  sweet  it  is  till  he  tries !  I 
will  show  you— at  Mukojima.  Just  as  she  showed  me. 
It  is  terrible— but  dear.  She  is  not  to  be  married  for 
many  years— though  she  is  older  than  I  am.  I 
promised  her  that  I  would  do  the  outrageous  thing 
before.  So  that  we  would  have  something  to  be  proud 
of  when  we  were  old— to  confess,  conceal,  and  smile 
over,  to  tell  in  whispers— to  women.  She  has  many 
days  for  outrageous  things— I  only  a  few.  Suishu  ? " 

The  young  samurai  shook  his  head  savagely— as  if 
that  were  the  end  of  it.  But  it  was  not.  He  was 
certainly  not  wise— concerning  women. 


152        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

"  Then  I  will  not  marry  you  !  She  says  no  husband 
in  America  loves  his  wife  like  that  after  he  is  married. 
And  I  mil  be  loved  like  that—  if  for  only  one  day— 
before  I  am  married  !  Yes  !  Else  I  will  not  marry 
you—  ever!  When  they  come  to  take  me  to  your 
house  they  shall  find  me  in  my  furisode"  —  yes—  and  the 
flowers  in  my  hair—  yes—  and  the  veil  upon  me—  yes— 
the  paint  on  my  cheeks  and  lips—  the  embroidered 


The  expectant  bridegroom  had  never  heard  anything 
so  desperate.  He  was  sufficiently  shocked  for  her  to 
go  on—  very  witchingly  now: 

"  If  you  would  change  the  name  in  red—  yes—  I  could 
go  to—Mukojima  !  And  you  might—  be  there  !  Or— 
on  the  way  !  There  is  no  law  against  that  !  You 
alone—  I.  Only  the  coolies.  Well?  We  might  meet  \" 

And  all  the  dull  artist  said  was  : 

"  Also,  we  might—  not  !  " 

How  many  things  he  did  not  know  about  women  ! 

"  We  might  not,"  laughed  the  girl. 

She  would  take  care  of  that. 

"  Your  august  aunt  will  think  you  at  the  Imperial 
Gardens  !  " 

"Yes." 

"  But  you  will  not  be  there  !  " 

"No." 

"  It  will  be  an  honorable  untruth  !  n 

"Yes." 

She  said  it  with  the  utmost  joy. 

"  It  shall  not  occur  !  " 

"  You  wish  me  to  be  married  without  having  done 
one  honorable  outrageous  thing?  You  wish  me  to 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        153 

break  my  word  to  Goo-Goo-San  ?  You  wish  me  to 
have  been  as  I  have  always  been— quite  proper? 
With  nothing  to  conceal— confess  ?  Nothing  to  be 
proud  of  in  secret  ?  Nothing  to  tell  in  whispers  when 
I  have  blackened  my  teeth— to  women?  Very  well! 
I  have  always  been  quite  proper.  So  I  shall  die— 
unwed.  Good  morning !  " 

She  closed  the  shoji  in  the  artist's  face  with  shock 
ing  suddenness. 

The  bird  nodded  approvingly. 

The  shoji  opened  a  little. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Dawn-Dream. 

The  bird  looked  vexed. 

Almost  the  dull  artist  had  blurted  out :  "  Nothing !  " 

But  some  of  the  eight  hundred  thousand  demons 
helped  him.  He  looked  at  his  queer  little  clock,  which 
ran  forward  twelve  hours,  then  backward  twelve,  and 
said: 

"  It  is  now,  divine  one,  about  an  inch  past  seven  in 
the  august  morning.  At  eight  a  messenger  will  sum 
mon  you  to  the  Imperial  Gardens— alone.  As  for 
me  "—he  seemed  to  face  some  calamity  coolly —  "  at  one 
in  the  afternoon  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Mukojima  by 
the  road  which  follows  the  river— rather  that  than 
have  you  honorably  dead !  " 

"Yes,"  beamed  the  girl.  "Rather  outrageous  and 
alive— a  little  outrageous— than  proper— very  proper 
—and  honorably  dead !  " 

But  the  artist  hesitated. 

"  Say  so  !  "  commanded  Dawn-Dream. 

Rock- Crystal  obeyed. 


154        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

The  girl  bowed  solemnly  and  closed  her  shoji.  He 
bowed  more  solemnly  and  closed  his. 

The  bird  looked  for  ten  minutes  from  one  to  the 
other,  then  gave  way  to  despair. 

As  Miss  Dawn-Dream  made  her  toilet  she  said  to 
her  mirror : 

"  He  did  !  I  made  him !  Always  I  shall  make  him. 
Thank  you,  Goo-Goo-San !  " 

But  was  it  Goo-Goo-San  she  had  to  thank  ? 

Later,  as  she  and  Miss  Hair-Pin,  her  maid,  leaned 
upon  the  porcelain  screen  and  talked  gravely,  so  that 
one  could  hardly  have  fancied  her  the  Dawn-Dream 
of  a  few  minutes  before,  some  one  pounded  upon  the 
shoji  and  summoned  her  to  the  Imperial  Gardens. 

"  You !  "  said  the  maid. 

"  Me  ? n  pouted  her  mistress. 

"And  you  must  go  alone !  " 

"  Alone !  "  answered  Dawn-Dream,  heroically. 


II 

AT  ONE  IN  THE  AFTERNOON 

So  at  one  in  the  afternoon  a  'rikisha  containing  a 
girl  was  racing  up  the  river  road,  trying  desperately 
to  keep  ahead  of  another  containing  a  man— and  not 
succeeding. 

Did  the  four  girls  among  the  irises— themselves  like 


THE   OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM         155 

irises— understand  ?  Two  of  them  were  dull  and  only 
wondered.  But  the  two  with  arms  entwined—  under 
a  pink  umbrella— they  smiled  ! 

And  as  they  entered  the  cherry  grove— the  two 
racing  'rikishas— a  little  procession  of  maidens  was 
leaving  it— each  all  alone  !  Did  they  know  that  Dawn- 
Dream  was— not  alone?  And  that  she  was  doing 
something  outrageous  ? 

One  of  them  looked  back— saw— nodded.  Such  is 
joy !  For— I  do  not  know  how  they  managed  it— they 
arrived  side  by  side— the  racing  'rikishas.  And  the 
girl  from  the  one  'rikisha  leaped— flying,  laughing, 
chattering— into  the  unwilling  arms  of  the  man  from 
the  other— to  the  vast  scandal  of  the  multitude,  who 
turned  their  backs  and  laughed.  Such  is  joy  ! 

And  there  was  no  aunt  to  see,  now,  nor  any  Miss 
Hair-Pin  to  chaperon,  and  the  coolies  were  to  wait  at 
the  entrance !  Think  of  it !  But— they  were  to  be 
married  in  a  month— and  the  furisode*  was  nearly 
ready.  Still,  I  am  glad  the  bird  was  not  there. 

To  his  unwilling  arms  Dawn-Dream  said : 

"  But  you  will  like  it  better  and  better." 

Well— he  did.  The  next  of  her  allures  was  taken 
more  easily. 

"  Do  not  be  discouraged,"  laughed  beautiful  Dawn- 
Dream. 

He  laughed  with  her.  Think  of  it !  And  said  that 
he  would  not  be !  His  vanquishment  was  complete  in 
an  hour ! 

"  Do  you  like  the  American  way  ? " 

"Yes— with  Japanese  constraint." 

Pray  fancy  the  constraint ! 


156        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

The  first  poem  they  found  hanging  from  the  branches 
was  for  him— so  she  swore.  You  know  how  she 
swore— by  the  myriad  gods— by  the  peace  of  Shaka ! 

' '  My  love  has  hair 
Which  shades  his  brow 
Like  leaves— 
Like  leaves  at  midnight— 
When  the  moon  is  out 
And  very  fair." 

The  next— as  it  should  be— was  for  her.  So  he 
swore— you  know  how. 

"  I  Ve  a  maiden 
With  a  laugh- 
Low— sweet— sure  ! 
Oh! 

"  I  've  a  maiden 
With  a  hand- 
Like  this— these — 
Oh!" 

The  illustration  of  "  this,"  "  these,"  was  one  cherry 
blossom— then  two. 

"  You ! "  laughed  the  artist,  fondly. 

"Then  there  is  another?" 

"  Yes !     This— these !  " 

Not  the  dull  artist  now !  He  put  his  lips  to  each 
one! 

Dawn-Dream  stood  off  and  stared. 

"  You  are  outrageous  yourself !  " 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        157 

He  laughed.     She  looked  at  the  hands  he  held. 

There  are— two." 

"Two!  Yes!  A  thousand— all  the  hands  of  the 
world— in  these !  " 

The  girl  held  her  breath  in  ecstasy. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh !  You !  A  great  samurai !  You  ! 
Head  of  a  clan !  You,  too,  will  have  something  to  con 
ceal!  To  tell  with  whispering!  To  be  proud  of 
among  men !  Never  among  women !  Promise ! " 

He  laughed  her  his  promise. 

"  Oh,  how  you  learn !     At  first  it  was  so  hard !  " 

She  looked  witchingly  up  at  him.  He  looked  long 
ingly  down  at  her.  Some  clairvoyant  temptation  came 
to  both  of  them. 

u  In  the  spring 
It  often  happens 
Men  to  maidens 
Say  dear  things—" 

Both  looked  whimsically  about.  They  were  not 
alone.  Both  sighed.  A  woman  passed.  He  reached 
out  for  the  scroll  at  his  hand. 

"  Cherry-blooms  are  very  pink- 
Yet  not  so  pink  as  you  are. 
April- wind  is  melody— 
Yet  never  such  as  you  are." 

Yume*-San  replied  with  another : 

"  My  lover  is  a  huge,  huge  bear! 
He  has  a  coat  of  wire— 
Claws ! 
He  embraces  me— as  a  bear! 


158        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

I  cry  out! 

He  lias  a  woman's  heart- 
He  lets  me  go ! 
Ugh! 
My  lover  is  a  huge,  huge  bear !  " 

They  laughed  together. 

"  You ! "  said  Miss  Dawn-Dream. 

"A  bear?" 

" So  huge?" 

"  So  huge." 

"The  fur  of  wire?" 

"  Of  wire." 

"Claws?" 

"Yes." 

"  Embracing—" 

At  that  moment  they  were  quite  alone.  It  was  a  pink- 
fleeced  grotto.  She  came  upon  him— her  head  droop 
ing.  He  retreated— perhaps  an  inch— fighting  for 
some  decorum  within. 

"  In  a  month  we  will  be  married !  " 

She  pouted  it  in  whispers. 

The  thing  within  was  vanquished. 

His  arms  opened— closed.  A  policeman  poked  his 
head  into  the  grotto. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  hastily. 

"  You  did  not  cry  out,"  he  whispered  joyously,  "  so—" 

"  You  are  a  bear !  " 

"  You  did  not  cry  out,  and  so— you  do  not  cry  out— 
now ! " 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        159 

"You  have  not— a  woman's  heart !  " 
She  tore  herself  from  him  and  ran  away— laughing 
back. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  afternoon— no  longer  in  the 
pink  grotto— when  Miss  Dawn-Dream  said : 

"  Now  I  know  that  you  adore  me." 

"  Of  course  !  " 

But  that  was  too  easy. 

"  Ask  me  how  I  know,  please." 

He  did  so. 

"You  gave  up  the  garden-party— for  this." 

"  Oh ! " 

"  For  me ! " 

As  if  that  would  make  him  regret  it ! 

"  I  got  more  than  I  gave  !  " 

"No  one  ever  before  gave  up  the  garden-party 
for— a  woman !  " 

"No?" 

"  For  anything  but  death !  " 

"  Oh ! " 

"  And  you  are  not  afraid  ? " 

"Of  what!" 

"  The  American— things  ? " 

He  answered  her  in  a  fashion  better  than  words 
since  time  immemorial. 

"  Nor  to  marry  me— since  I  have  been  outrageous  ? " 

The  same  sort  of  answer.     Then  he  asked : 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  To  go  ?    No.     I  shall  stay  here  forever !  " 

"  To  marry  me." 

She  knew  perfectly  that  he  had  meant  that. 


160        THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM 

"  Are  you  ? " 

"  My  presents  rust." 

"  In  a  month." 

"And  not— to-morrow?" 

Then  she  thought  longingly  of  the  unfinished  furi- 
sode— if  that  is  what  it  was— but  for  which  she  might 
have  answered  yes,  but  for  which  she  had  to  repeat : 

"  In  a  month." 

And  then  they  went  home— Miss  Dawn-Dream  follow 
ing,  so  that  the  coolies,  who  saw  nothing  in  the  morn 
ing,  might  see  nothing  now.  But  these  coolies  could 
not  understand  why  they  had  to  follow  the  slow  coach 
before  them  when  they  had  been  urged  to  speed  while 
it  was  behind  them.  For  they  were  wise  about  jin- 
rikishas,  but  not  women. 

The  sun  was  setting.  On  the  right  a  man  plowed 
in  his  rice-field.  The  mud  had  splashed  the  belly  of  his 
ox  a  pale  green.  He  turned  and  grinned.  The  'rikisha 
in  front  stopped.  The  other  one  stopped. 

"  Good  night,"  called  the  man  in  front  to  the  happy 
plowman. 

"Good  night," returned  the  man— with  his  smiling 
eyes  on  the  girl. 

"  It  is  joy,"  said  she,  smiling  to  the  farmer. 

Further,  a  man  and  his  wife  were  going  home  from 
the  field.  He  had  on  a  rain-coat.  She  carried  a  tea 
pot.  Again  the  'rikisha  in  front  stopped.  Again  the 
one  behind. 

"  It  does  not  rain  ? n 

"  It  may." 


THE  OUTRAGEOUS  MISS  DAWN-DREAM        161 

The  wife  with  the  teapot  smiled  upon  her  muddy 
lord.  It  was  a  brilliant  reply. 

They  exchanged  good  nights  with  smiles.  But  the 
girl  in  the  rear,  who  was  silent,  got  more. 

"  It  is  joy ! "  she  said  again.  "  Oh,  the  world  is  full 
of  joy ! " 

The  'rikisha  in  front  turned  into  the  Kiobashi-Dori. 
The  girl  in  the  one  behind  risked  the  dislocation  of 
her  neck  watching  it  out  of  sight.  Then,  when  there 
was  no  one  to  outrun,  she  made  her  coolies  run ! 

Her  Miss  Aunt  commended  the  glow  in  Miss  Dawn- 
Dream's  cheeks. 

"  Was  it  not  exquisite  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Always  it  is." 

"Yes." 

"  If  one  did  not  have  to  go  alone !  " 

Then  Miss  Dawn-Dream  woke  up  and  laughed. 

"  What  do  you  augustly  dream  of  ? " 

"A  month." 

Such  a  reply!     Her  aunt  stared. 

"  It  is  such  a  very  long  time— a  month." 

"Yes." 

"  A  day  is  shorter." 

Again  her  aunt  stared. 

"  The  garden-party—  ? " 

Again  Miss  Dawn-Dream  remembered  and  laughed. 

"  It  was  exquisite— it  was  I " 

Well-it  was. 
11 


THE   LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE 

STREET  WHERE  THE  SUN 

NEVER  CAME 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE 

STREET  WHERE  THE  SUN 

NEVER  CAME 


DEARLY  BELOVED :  My  text  this  morning  is  the 
commandment,  "  Thou  shalt  not  steal. " 

In  the  illumination  of  this  theme  I  shall  follow  the 
custom  you  have  so  considerately  permitted  me,  of 
choosing  my  own  best  means.  I  choose  this  morning 
to  tell  you  a  story.  It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
done  this,  and  I  offer  no  apology  for  doing  it  now. 
It  is  the  way  of  the  Scriptures,  and  of  the  Great 
Teacher. 

But  this  is  not  a  parable :  it  is  an  experience.  I 
could  not  invent  a  parable  so  well  calculated  to  teach 
the  baleful  consequences  of  evil — even  though  re 
pented  of,  even  though  expiated.  My  story  is  of  a 
convict  in  the  county  prison.  He  has  long  been 
preaching  to  you  through  me.  He  is  a  better  preacher 
than  I,  and  has  saved  more  souls.  Yet  his  story  is 
not  a  pleasant  one. 

Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  that  there  are  some 
things  which  even  God  cannot  change  ? 

He  is  only  a  number  to  the  keepers  of  the  prison. 
His  age  is  twenty-three.  His  hair  is  gray,  and  he 
stoops ;  yet  his  face  is,  to  me,  very  beautiful.  It  is 

165 


166     THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

pale  with  the  pallor  of  the  prison,  but  his  eyes  are 
very  blue  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  his  mouth  is  fine  and 
boyish.  There  are  little  curls  of  beard  on  his  face 
which  remind  me  sometimes  of  the  portraits  of  John 
the  Baptist. 

A  few  years  ago  he  was  a  loafer  on  Alaska  Street, 
a  singer  of  songs  in  its  saloons.  Some  of  you  don't 
even  know  where  that  is.  He  was  a  thief.  His  father 
was  a  thief  before  him.  And  both  were  proud  of  it. 
It  was  their  heredity,  as  yours  is  something  else. 
Remember,  it  was  Alaska  Street.  At  ten  he  had  a 
title— the  "baby  cracksman."  At  fourteen  he  was  in 
the  rogues'  gallery  at  City  Hall— another  and  greater 
distinction.  And  yet  he  had  a  mother.  And  she  was 
gentle— for  Alaska  Street.  Some  one  had  converted 
her,  and  she  had  tried  to  convert  her  husband  and  son. 
They  laughed  at  her— in  good  enough  nature— and 
remained  away  from  her  a  little  more. 

One  day  they  brought  Con— that  is  his  name— up 
from  the  prison  to  see  his  mother  die.  It  was  only  a 
few  minutes  they  let  him  remain,  but  in  that  little 
time  two  things  happened :  Con  discovered  that  he 
loved  his  mother,  and  I  learned  to  know  him.  I  had 
heard  of  him,  and  was  surprised  at  the  laughing,  boy 
ish  innocence  of  his  face. 

"Con,"  said  his  mother,  "I  think  I 'm— going  to 
heaven." 

"  Yes,"  said  Con,  who  had  no  doubt  of  it. 

"And  I  '11-1  '11-"  She  wanted  to  fix  something 
in  his  mind  that  would  lead  him  to  goodness. 

"  And  I  '11  wait  for  you  at  the  gate." 

It  was  the  refrain  of  a  Sunday-school  song. 


WHERE   THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  167 

"  Did— did— don't,"  gasped  Con,  in  terror.  He  had 
never  dreamed  of  going  to  heaven.  "  It 's  no  use." 

"Promise  that  you  will  meet  me— at  the  gate!" 
pleaded  the  mother. 

Con's  eyes  appealed  to  me. 

"  Promise !  "  I  said. 

"You  would  never  break  your  promise— to  me," 
said  the  mother,  putting  her  hand  on  Con's. 

"  I  promise,"  said  Con. 

Con  pointed  out  to  me  that  his  mother's  face  after 
death  was  joyous. 

"  Because  of  your  promise,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  asked  Con,  with  awe  and  terror 
together  in  his  own  face. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Then— then  I  '11  have  to  do  it,"  the  boy  answered. 
For  a  moment  his  mind  flew  back  and  forth  over  his 
life,  trying  to  understand  what  it  meant.  Then  he 
said  with  a  gasp : 

"Do  you  think  I  kin?" 

"  I  think  you  can,"  I  said.     "  I  will  help  you." 

"  Give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

It  is  not  an  easy  road  from  the  slums  to  the  church— 
from  the  company  of  thieves  to  that  of  Christians. 
None  of  us  has  ever  traveled  one  so  difficult.  And 
then,  Con  had  the  misfortune  to  come  first  at  those 
terrible  passages  of  denunciation  in  which  the  Scrip 
tures  abound.  One  night  I  found  him  prone  upon  the 
floor,  trying  to  read  by  the  light  of  a  small  candle. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Trying  to  find  the  way,  sir,"  Con  answered. 

"  And  how  do  you  succeed  ? " 


163    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

"  Can't  find  it ;  there  is  none— for  me.  Listen :  <  The 
wicked  shall  be  turned  into  hell.'  * 

I  took  the  book.  "  '  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet, 
they  shall  be  as  white  as  snow/  "  I  read. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  find  that  f  "  asked  Con. 

I  showed  him. 

"  Any  more  like  it  1 " 

I  showed  him  other  passages  of  that  kind. 

But  then  I  thought  it  best  to  let  him  search  the 
Scriptures  himself.  And  he  did.  When  I  came  again 
he  had  found  the  story  of  the  atonement. 

"I  understand  now,"  Con  said,  "and  it  's  all 
right." 

I  finally  secured  him  employment  in  the  stables  of 
the  City  Traction  Company.  It  was  the  meanest  and 
lowest  thing  they  had  to  do.  But  Con  was  glad  to  get 
it.  He  said  he  liked  the  work  in  the  stable.  And 
when  I  asked  him  why,  he  answered : 

"  Somebody  was  born  in  a  stable." 

By  slow  stages  he  worked  upward  until  he  became 
a  conductor.  Often  I  rode  with  him.  Often  I 
watched  him.  He  was  handling  the  money  which  had% 
tempted  him  down  there  in  Alaska  Street.  One  day  I 
noticed  that  he  rung  up  certain  fares  which  did  not 
appear  to  have  been  paid.  I  took  him  to  the  back 
platform  and  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  It  takes  a  long  time  to  git  a  character,"  sighed  Con. 

I  pressed  my  inquiry. 

"How  many  people  in  the  car?"  he  asked. 

"  Twenty-two,"  I  counted. 

"  How  many  on  the  dial  ? " 

"  Twenty-two,"  I  said  again. 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  169 

He  pulled  the  receipts  out  of  his  pocket.  "  Should 
be  a  dollar  ten,"  he  said  as  we  counted. 

"  A  dollar  fifteen,"  he  laughed  j  "  a  mistake  in  favor 
of  the  company." 

Still  I  was  not  satisfied. 

"  Then,  Con,"  I  said,  "  it  looks  as  if  some  one  paid 
and  got  off  and  you  did  not  ring  up." 

Then  Con  became  serious. 

"  I  am  a  little  careless  about  my  own  money  some 
times,  but  not  about  that  of  the  company.  Some 
times"— he  hesitated,  but  I  made  him  go  on— "some 
times,  when  some  poor  washerwoman  gits  on,  I  pay 
her  fare.  My  mother  was  a  washerwoman.  And  the 
little  poor  kids — sometimes  I  pay  the  fares  for  the 
little  poor  kids— the  kind  that  look  as  if  they  did  n't 
git  enough  to  eat." 

But  a  strange  thing  happened  from  this.  Con's  car 
came  to  be  patronized  by  washerwomen  and  poor 
children  almost  exclusively,  and  well-dressed  people 
avoided  it  and  complained  to  the  company.  And  the 
receipts  fell  to  almost  nothing.  We  did  not  think  at 
the  time  of  the  danger  of  this.  Indeed,  to  Con  it  was 
a  very  joyous  fact.  The  people  he  liked  best  and  who 
liked  him  best  were  his  passengers. 

Suddenly  Con  was  transferred  from  the  day  to  the 
night  line.  It  was  at  about  the  time  that  I  began 
my  service  at  the  Midnight  Mission  in  Spruce  Street. 
I  therefore  used  to  ride  home  with  Con  several  nights 
a  week.  On  my  first  night  Con  stopped  at  a  large 
printing-house  on  Market  Street  and  waited.  It  was 
his  first  up  trip— a  quarter  past  twelve.  I  asked  him 
what  he  was  waiting  for. 


170    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

"  You  '11  see  in  a  minute,"  he  laughed. 

Presently  a  girl  came  hurrying  from  the  printing- 
house  and  into  the  car. 

After  this  had  happened  a  number  of  times  I  asked 
Con  if  he  knew  the  girl. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  like  to  be  kind  to  her.  They 
took  my  washerwomen  and  kids  from  me,  and  I  Ve 
got  to  be  kind  to  some  one." 

"  Con,"  I  asked,  "  have  you  ever  been  in  love  ? " 

Con  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Would  n't  know  it  if  I  saw  it,"  he  said. 

However,  the  waiting  continued,  and  presently  Con 
took  courage  to  say,  when  she  approached : 

" Going  up?" 

Perhaps  the  girl  suspected  that  it  was  only  a  clumsy 
device  for  conversation,  for  at  first  she  would  only 
smile. 

But  one  night  she  answered  him  with  a  soft  "  Yes." 
She  seemed  ashamed  to  have  been  betrayed  by  his  use 
less  question  at  last,  but  after  that  she  always  gave 
him  a  "  Yes  "  for  his  "  Going  up  !  " 

For  a  long  time  that  was  all.  But  then,  on  a  cold 
night,  Con  got  down  and  helped  her  on.  He  remarked 
as  he  did  so : 

«  Cold ! " 

"Yes— it  is— cold,"  answered  the  surprised  girl. 

On  another  night  Con  said:  "You  walk  like  you 
was  tired  to-night." 

"  Yes,"  confessed  the  girl,  with  a  flush  j  "  I  am  tired. 
Don't  you  never  git  tired  ? " 

"  Y— yes,"  said  Con,  confused  by  so  much  gracious- 
ness  j  "  bib— bib— but  never  on  this  trip !  " 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  171 

Then  he  fled  to  me  on  the  platform. 

The  girl's  eyes  followed  Con  out  in  some  wonder  of 
him ;  then  we  could  see  her  pull  her  thin  wrap  about 
her  and  gently  fall  asleep.  And  somehow,  as  she  slept, 
the  hollows  in  her  cheeks  disappeared  and  they  became 
rosy.  I  was  surprised  at  her  wan  and  pathetic  beauty. 
Con  saw  as  much  of  this  as  I  did— perhaps  more. 

"  She  's  handsome,"  said  he. 

"  She  's  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"  But  that  cough—"  said  Con.  "  Do  you  think  she  'd 
mind  if  I  sneaked  in  and  put  my  overcoat  on  her  ? " 

"  It  would  keep  her  warm,"  I  said. 

He  did  it,  and  came  happily  back  to  me. 

"Don't  catch  cold  yourself,"  I  admonished.  "Go 
inside." 

Con  caught  my  arm  as  I  was  about  to  precede  him. 

"  You  '11  wake  her,"  he  said. 

We  saw  an  added  glow  come  into  the  tired  face, 
and  unconsciously  she  pulled  the  coat  closer. 

Con  was  in  ecstasy.  He  told  the  motorman  to  go 
carefully  at  the  curves  and  over  switches. 

As  we  approached  the  little  street  where  she  lived 
he  stole  in  and  recovered  his  overcoat.  Then  he 
retreated  to  the  platform  and  called  officially  the  name 
of  the  street. 

"  I— I  must  'a7  slep',"  smiled  the  girl,  as  she  came 
forth.  "I  feel  rested— and  warm." 

"  Mind  the  car,"  whispered  Con  j  "  I  'm  going  up  the 
little  street  with  her." 

The  girl  was  inclined  to  be  rebellious,  but  Con  drew 
her  arm  within  his  own  and  carried  her  off  like  a 
conqueror. 


172    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN   THE  LITTLE  STREET 

One  night,  when  we  three  were  again  alone,  Con  left 
me,  as  he  mysteriously  said,  to  go  inside  to  'tend  to 
his  lamps.  I  did  not  see  how  they  could  be  brought 
to  greater  brightness.  But  on  his  way  out  he  sat  down 
for  a  moment  beside  the  girl,  and  I  understood  what 
"  'tending  to  the  lamps  "  meant. 

"  You  're  not  very  strong,"  began  Con. 

"  No,"  confessed  the  girl. 

"  You  ought  n't  to  work  so  hard— anyhow,  at  night." 

"  I  got  to,"  sighed  the  girl. 

"  Why  you  got  to?" 

The  girl  looked  up  in  mild  surprise.  Con  was 
noting  the  bones  at  her  thin  wrists.  He  repeated  his 
question  doggedly. 

"  Mother  's  a  cripple,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Don't  your  father  earn  nothing  ? " 

Shame  flew  into  the  girl's  thin  face.  Her  head 
drooped.  She  was  silent. 

"  Say— what  does  your  father—" 

Con's  voice  rose  angrily,  and  the  girl  gasped.  He 
repeated  his  question. 

"I— never— had  no  father,"  she  said  then. 

Con's  face  grew  white.  I  saw  his  hands  grip  each 
other.  The  girl's  head  went  a  little  lower.  Con  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Say,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "I— I  like  you." 

The  girl  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"  I  like  you !  "  repeated  Con. 

The  girl  made  no  motion,  and  he  came  to  me  on  the 
platform. 

"  Say,  you  ast  me  once  if  I  was  ever  in  love  j  well, 
I  'm  in  love  now,  I  expect.  Ain't  it  love  when  you  'd 
die  for— for  her?" 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  173 

He  pointed  into  the  car. 

"  Yes,  Con,  that  is  love,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  ;m  glad  of  it." 

That  night  he  took  her  up  the  little  street  again. 
And  she  did  not  object  to  it. 

One  night  Mary  (that  was  her  name)  did  not  appear 
at  a  quarter  after  twelve.  It  was  in  the  early  spring. 
We  waited  five  minutes.  Then  I  insisted  that  Con 
should  go  on. 

"  You  will  be  reported  for  such  unusual  delay,"  I 
said. 

He  was  immovable. 

At  last  I  volunteered  to  go  in  and  see  what  was  the 
matter.  She  had  not  been  there  that  day. 

"Will  you  do  me  a  favor?"  Con  asked.  "Come 
along  to  the  little  house  and  see  whether  she 's— she  's 
—sick." 

I  hurt  Con  by  refusing  to  go  that  night,  but 
promised  to  go  on  the  third  night  following  if  she  did 
not  appear.  I  kept  away  from  him  in  the  meantime. 
When  I  got  on  his  car  he  was  in  a  state  of  great  excite 
ment.  He  had  not  seen  the  girl. 

We  went  to  the  little  house. 

A  small,  lame  woman  opened  the  door  to  us.  She 
stared  a  moment  with  the  tired  eyes  of  the  watcher, 
and  then  said : 

"Good  evening." 

There  was  something  deprecatingly  pretty  about  her. 

Con  spoke  up  avidly :  "  I  jist  got  off  duty— ma'am  — 
a  little  while— I  'm  on  the  night  line  now— and  I 
missed  her,  ma'am,  I  missed  her— and  I  'd  like  to 
know  if  she  's— if  there  7s  anything  the  matter— I  — 
because  I  missed  her." 

"  Mary  ? "  asked  the  little  woman,  warily. 


174    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

• 
"  Yes— yessum— Mary." 

"  She  is  sick." 

Con  swayed  unsteadily  upon  the  door-step.  The 
little  watcher  began  cautiously  to  close  the  door. 

"Wait,  wait— jist  a  minute,"  begged  Con,  holding 
the  door  open.  "  This  is  Mr.  Burton.  He  's  a  minis 
ter.  And  I  ;m  €on.  She  Js  told  you  about  us,  I 
expect  ? " 

The  little  woman  said,  "  No." 

"  Ain't  she  told  you  about— me  f  " 

Another  negative. 

I  interposed  with  an  explanation  for  Con,  and  the 
request  that  he  be  permitted  to  see  her 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the  mother,  "  but  she  must 
not  see  anybody.  That  is  the  doctor's  orders." 

"  But,  ma'am,  I  must  see  her — must ! "  cried  Con  "I 
kin  make  her  well— I  kin  I " 

Con  was  growing  vociferous  in  his  grief.  He  did 
not  seem  likely  to  gain  admittance  that  way. 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  "  I  think  it  will  do  your  daughter 
good  to  see  Con.  I  am  sure  it  will  do  her  no  harm. 
Kindly  ask  her  if  she  will  see  us.  If  she  will  not,  w% 
will  go  away  at  once." 

Con  grasped  that  hope. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered;  "ast  her— jist  ast  her!" 

Of  course  she  would  see  us !  I  heard  her  explain 
ing  in  the  next  room  that  she  did  not  think  either  of 
us  cared.  And  then  while  we  waited  I  heard  them 
make  her  pretty  for  us.  And  I  fancied  the  little 
pink  changes  in  the  delicate  face  I  had  learned  to 
know.  And  when  presently  the  mother  returned  with 
lightened  feet,  I  prayed  that  love  might  enter  to  her 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  175 

daughter  as  he  had  once  entered  to  her— and  that  he 
might  not  depart  so  quickly. 

Mary  held  out  her  wasted  hands  to  Con,  and  he  took 
them  greedily,  gasping: 

"Mary— oh,  Mary— I  missed  you  sol  " 

And  it  had  been  only  three  days ! 

With  a  woman's  intuition  she  understood  it  all,  and 
pulled  him  down  and  kissed  him. 

Con  was  taken  by  surprise  and  bolted. 

"  Why,  I  thought— once  you  said  you  liked  me— and 
then  you  missed  me — and  you  came  here — I  thought — " 

She  thought  no  more.  For  "Con  swooped  upon  her 
and  kissed  her  eyes  and  hair  and  mouth. 

"  Con,"  confessed  the  girl,  hoarsely,  "  I  wished  you  'd 
miss  me.  Wishing  makes  things  happen,  you  know." 

"  I  missed  you  without  that,"  said  Con. 

"That  makes  me  glad,"  breathed  the  girl,  "but—" 

She  stopped  and  compassionately  stroked  his  face. 

"  When  11  you  be  ready  to  go  up  with  us  again  ? " 
asked  Con. 

"  Poor  Con ! "  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck 
longingly. 

Con  understood.  He  staggered  chokingly  up.  The 
parcel  he  had  carried  all  the  way  uncovered. 

"  Look  here !  " 

He  shouted  it  in  the  high  treble  of  agony  as  he 
thrust  them  upon  her— two  dozen  costly  roses. 

The  sick  girl  gave  a  moan  of  pleasure  as  she  buried 
her  face  in  them.  "  Oh,  Con !  "  was  all  she  could  say. 
And  as  she  plunged  her  face  again  and  again  into  them, 
taking  their  fragrance  with  rapturous  breaths,  that 
was  all  she  could  repeat :  "  Oh,  Con ! " 


176    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

But  the  choking  had  passed  from  Con,  and  he  was 
a  man  again. 

"  Con,"  said  the  girl,  presently,  "  I  'd  rather  have 
these  than  anything  you  could  bring  me.  Mine  all 
died,  you  know." 

Con  whimsically  pretended  to  want  them  back. 

"  There  was  something  else  I  wanted  to  give  you. 
But  if  you  'd  rather  have  those  than— anything— " 

"Something  else?  But  what?  Why,  these  must 
have  cost—" 

She  paused,  appalled. 

"  A  month's  wages,"  laughed  Con.  "  But  the  other 
thing  did  n't  cost— or  at  least  ain't  worth  a  cent— and 
you  don't  want  it !  " 

"What  is  it,  Con?"  asked  the  wondering  girl. 
"  Let  me  have  it.  Yes,  I  want  it." 

"  It 's  myself." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  only  stared.  Then  she  rose 
on  her  elbow  in  the  bed. 

"But,  Con-" 

Con  half  put  an  arm  about  her. 

"  I  '11  be  spending  my  money  all  the  time  for  f ool-% 
ishness  if  you  don't  let  me  use  it  to  take  keer  of  your 
ma  and  you." 

"  But,  Con—"  said  Mary,  again,  with  that  fierce  light 
of  unbelieving  joy  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  could  do  it,"  Con  went  on  misunderstand- 
ingly.  "  We  would  n't  be  to  say  rich.  But  you  M  be 
comfortable  and  I  'd  be  happy— mighty  happy." 

Mary  crept  upon  his  arm. 

"  Con,  Con,  do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  marry 
me?" 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  177 

"  Yes ;  I  'm  in  love  with  you.  Ain't  I  in  love  with 
her  ? "  he  asked  me. 

"  But— oh,  Con,  1 'm  dying !  " 

Con  conquered  the  choking  and  enveloped  her  with 
his  arms.  "  No,"  he  said  strongly  and  calmly.  "  God 
won't  take  you  from  me.  He  never  gave  me  much, 
and  he  '11  give  me  you.  Won't  he,  Mr.  Burton  ? " 

"  I  believe  he  will,  Con,"  I  said. 

"  I  believe  it,  too,  Con,"  said  the  girl.  "  Somehow 
I  feel  it  inside." 

I  married  them  that  night. 

Mary  was  always  fragile.  But  with  the  Sundays  in 
the  park,  sufficient  food  and  clothing,  rest,  content, 
she  seemed  to  be  getting  better  all  the  time.  But,  I 
think,  she  was  only  happier.  They  planned  hungrily 
for  their  happiness,  as  if  otherwise  some  moment  of  it 
might  be  overlooked  and  lost.  But  the  most  curious 
of  their  plans  were  for  its  ending. 

"  I  want  to  die  first,  Con,"  said  Mary.  "  I  would  n't 
want  to  live  without  you." 

"Well,  how  about  me  living  without  you?"  Con 
would  object. 

"Oh,  you  're  bigger  'n  me,  Con,"  his  wife  would 
laugh.  "  Anyway,  I  '11  be  ugly  when  I  git  old.  Then 
you  'd  stop  liking  me." 

"  You  'd  feel  kind  of  strange  up  there  without  no 
parents  or  friends.  I  '11  go  first  and  stand  at  the  gate 
with  my  mother  and  watch  for  you,"  urged  her  hus 
band. 

"  I  'd  know  your  mother,  Con,  from  you ;  and  I  '11 
look  out  for  her.  Then  we  could  wait  for  you! 

Would  n't  that  be  nice  ? "    She  leaned  over  and  whis- 
12 


178    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

pered  so  that  I  might  not  hear.  "  Con,  if  we  have— 
when  we  have— the  baby,  I  '11  leave  you  that— for  com 
fort,  Con!" 

Con  gathered  her  into  his  arms  with  rapture. 

"  All  nonsense,"  he  chided.  "  We  both  goin'  to  be 
old— old— old !  Then  God  's  going  to  let  us  go 
together.  That  often  happens  to  very  old  people. 
Sh  !  I  'm  a-goin'  to  sing  you  to  sleep  !  " 

And  then  his  marvelous  voice  would  rise  in 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly ! 

For  it  was  that  nearly  always. 

Then  I  missed  Con  from  his  car,  and  at  the  com 
pany's  office  they  told  me  he  was  in  prison  for  stealing. 
I  went  to  the  prison. 

"  Con,"  I  said,  "  I  want  only  your  word.  Tell  me 
whether  you  have  done  anything  wrong?" 

"  Will  you  take  my  word  1 "  asked  the  boy.  "  They 
would  n't." 

"  I  want  nothing  but  your  word,"  I  said. 

"  I  have  done  nothing  wrong  since  my  mother  died. 

I  believed  him.     I  do  still. 

"  Tell  Mary,"  he  begged,  "  that  I  am  innocent.  They 
can't  convict  an  innocent  man.  I  will  soon  be  home— 
tell  her  that !  " 

"  She  does  not  need  to  be  told  that  you  are  inno 
cent,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  will  go  and  comfort  her." 

But  I  did  not  tell  her  that  Con  would  soon  be  home. 

And  again  there  was  that  light  in  the  upper  window 
of  the  little  house  in  the  little  street  where  the  sun 


WHEEE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  179 

never  came.  Again  there  was  watching  there— now 
for  him  who  was  to  come  no  more. 

You  will  scarcely  understand  how  grim  and  brief 
and  passionless  was  his  trial.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  the  judges  should  not  know  that  the  tragedy  of 
this  young  life  was  going  on  before  them  to  a  hopeless 
end— nay,  that  the  tragedy  of  those  other  lives  in  the 
little  sunless  house  was  going  on  to  a  hopeless  end. 

Hell  itself  is  not  more  grim  and  implacable  than  the 
thing  we  have  created  and  called  law— than  the  men 
we  have  set  over  us  and  called  judges !  Sometimes 
we  even  call  them  justices— who  do  injustice.  Oh, 
better  indeed  that  a  thousand  guilty  escape  than  that 
one  suffer  innocently  !  For  with  him  humanity — the 
world— suffers,  and  justice,  which  is  of  God  alone, 
becomes  a  lie !  Ah,  perhaps  it  is  true  that  laws 
are  made  for  the  poor  and  law  for  the  rich.  For  Con 
there  was  not  even  an  advocate.  Alas!  we  both 
thought  that  innocence  needed  none  ! 

"  Con,"  I  said,  "  be  not  afraid.     He  careth  for  you." 

The  boy  lifted  up  from  his  travail  a  face  almost 
glorified. 

"I  am  not,"  he  answered  with  a  wan  smile.  "I 
have  my  mother's  Book  in  my  breast  here." 

And,  indeed,  it  did  not  seem  as  if  he  need  to  be 
afraid.  There  stood  an  array  of  his  washerwomen— 
all  his  friends.  There  were  the  children  he  loved  and 
who  loved  him. 

But  the  former  were  made  to  tell  that  they  paid  no 
fares,  and  the  latter  that  the  good  conductor  gave  them 
money  out  of  the  pocket  where  the  much  money  was. 

The  jury  laughed  here,  and  the  trial  might  have 


180     THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE   STREET 

ended.  But  the  children  were  cajoled  into  telling 
with  their  little  raptures  about  the  lovely  lady  who 
lived  up  the  alley. 

"  Of  course,"  smiled  the  district  attorney  to  the  jury ; 
"always  a  confederate." 

"  Used  to  work,  did  n't  she  ?  And  gave  up  her  work 
after  she  met  the  conductor  ? " 

Yes,  the  little  children  said,  and  told,  besides,  about 
her  beautiful  clothes  afterward. 

Again  the  jury  and  the  prosecutor  exchanged  smiles. 

Then  came  the  informers  who  had  traveled  with  my 
poor  Con  and  noted  all  his  acts  of  kindness  but  to 
make  of  them  crimes.  Oh,  I  did  not  know  till  then 
that  kindness  and  mercy  and  sweetness  could  be  so 
perilous ! 

And  even  I  who  tried  to  help  him  was  made  to  tell 
of  that  life  in  Alaska  Street,  but  not  permitted  to  tell 
of  the  other. 

I  said  that  Con  was  married  to  Mary.  It  made  them 
laugh— I  do  not  know  why.  To  be  married  to  her 
seemed  all  the  worse  for  him.  I  said  that  Con  paid  the 
fares  of  the  washerwomen  and  children — unknown  to^ 
them. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  do  it  ? "  asked  the  prosecutor. 

I  had  to  say  that  I  never  had,  but  that  Con  told 
me  so  and  I  believed  him. 

"  You,  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  believed  an  often- 
convicted  thief,  whose  picture  is  in  the  rogues' 
gallery?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered ;  "  I,  knowing  all  that  better  than 
you,  yet  believe  every  word  he  said  !  " 

"Why?"  smiled  the  officer  of  the  law. 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  181 

"  Because  he  is  a  servant  of  the  Most  High  God/7 1 
answered. 

And  they  laughed ! 

Then  came  Con's  story  in  his  own  behalf.  And 
what  a  broken,  pitiable,  discreditable  story  it  was! 
Every  little  fact  about  that  other  life  he  told  with 
fearful  truth.  But  about  his  new  life  they  made  him 
stand  mute. 

The  jury  found  him  guilty  without  leaving  their 
seats,  and  the  court  sentenced  him  and  turned  with 
relief  to  other  business. 

So  Con  was  taken  back  to  the  prison  he  had  said, 
with  God's  help,  he  would  enter  no  more.  The  kind 
warden  remembered  that,  and  when  he  came  he  put 
his  arm  caressingly  over  the  boy's  shoulder  and  said : 

"  They  ought  to  have  given  you  a  chance,  Con." 

To  me  the  warden  said : 

"  There  is  something  different  in  his  face  this  time. 
We  learn  to  read  faces  here.  There  is  something  dif 
ferent  in  his  face." 

"And  in  his  heart,"  said  I.  "We  learn  to  read 
hearts,  and  there  is  something  different  in  his  heart. 
Be  kind  to  the  boy,  and  God  will  be  kind  to  you.  For 
he  ought  not  to  have  come  here  this  time." 

As  the  iron  door  clanged  to  behind  him  Con  said : 

"Tell  Mary— I  ?m— I  'm— disappointed." 

Those  two  words  characterized  the  grim  tragedy  of 
his  young  life.  His  quivering  face  spoke  the  rest. 
Always  it  will  speak  to  me  when  I  am  impatient  with 
wrong. 

Con  languished  in  that  prison  where  before  he  had 
grown  fat.  He  made  shoes,  and  they  tefi  me  they 


182     THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

were  good  shoes— as  was  everything  else  he  did  good. 
But  after  a  while  a  strange  and  solemn  peace  came  and 
dwelt  in  his  face ;  and  not  a  soul  in  the  prison  but 
loved  the  boy.  At  first  I  did  not  understand  it.  But 
one  day  Con  told  me.  He  knew  now,  he  said,  why  God 
had  let  that  jury  convict  him.  There  was  a  work  for 
him  to  do  in  the  prison.  And  I  was  only  too  glad  to 
say  yes— yes— yes ! 

He  began  his  work  with  that  marvelous  voice.  And 
that,  too,  like  his  changed  face,  grew  richly  and 
divinely  sweet  and  caressing.  It  seems  to  me  that  I 
have  never  heard  its  equal.  It  was  something  more 
than  human.  I  cannot  describe  it.  It  sang  of  that 
past  of  the  slums— of  his  vain  redemption,  of  the  little 
sunless  house,  and  yet  of  hope,  of  promise,  of  God 
and  heaven ! 

First  he  sang  one  night  when  the  prison  slept.  The 
warden  tiptoed  to  his  door  to  say  that  it  was  against 
the  rules.  But  he  also  said  he  was  sorry— and  the 
rule  was  broken.  For  the  warden  told  the  in 
spectors  that  when  Con  sang  the  prison  needed  no 
guards.  So  every  night  he  sang  when  the  lights  were^ 
taken  away.  And  this  was  all  the  gentleness  some  of 
the  prisoners  had  ever  known. 

Later  they  brought  him  out  to  stand  on  the  high 
bridge  between  the  tiers  of  cells  and  sing  at  the  Sun 
day  services. 

It  was  not  strange  to  me  that  Con  came  to  minister 
to  them,  after  a  while,  in  a  fashion  the  chaplain  could 
not.  For  he  was  one  of  them.  He  had  sinned  and 
suffered  as  they  had.  He  understood,  they  said.  And 
they  loved  him.  Truly  he  bore  their  griefs  and  carried 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  183 

their  sorrows,  even  to  the  grim  scaffold  which  stood 
now  and  then  in  the  lower  corridor,  veiled  from  the 
world. 

Last  Monday  Mary  sent  for  me.     She  was  dying. 

"  And  Con,  even  if  he  were  here,  could  not  save  me 
—now"  she  smiled  up  at  me. 

I  sent  a  mounted  officer  galloping  with  a  note  to 
the  kind  warden,  and  the  officer  brought  Con  up  with 
him. 

Mary  heard  the  noise  at  the  door,  and  understood. 
She  reached  out  and  pressed  my  hand. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "it  is  Con." 

"Yes— God  bless  you—" 

And  then  Con  entered.  But  not  the  impetuous  Con 
who  had  come  at  such  a  crisis  before.  There  was 
something  of  the  saint  in  his  bearing,  yet  something 
infinitely  more  like  a  lover  than  before.  He  put  him 
self  within  Mary's  outstretched  arms  and  looked  long 
and  silently  into  her  face.  She  looked  into  his.  They 
needed  nothing  more.  They  had  not  met  for  nearly 
a  year. 

"  Con,"  whispered  Mary,  "  last  night  I  dreamed  that 
you  stopped  for  me  and  said  in  the  old,  old  way: 
'  Going  up  ? ' " 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Con. 

"  Do  you  remember  ? " 

"Yes." 

"You  can't  save  me  now,  Con— not  even  your  love 
can." 

"No,"  said  Con. 

"  And  I  'm  so  glad !  —that  I  am  going  first,  you  know. 
<  Going  up  ? '  Oh,  how  happy  we  were !  It  is  enough 


184    THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  THE  LITTLE  STREET 

—to  be  happy  'most  a  year,  don't  you  think?  Poor 
Con  !  You  won't  be  here  when  I  go  up ;  they  '11  take 
you  back— back— " 

"  To  the  prison." 

She  would  not  say  it,  but  Con  did. 

"  Poor  Con  !  Poor  old  Con  !  Darling  I  I  have 
been  so  happy!  I  'm  not  afraid,  Con  dear,  for 
you  won't  be  long.  I  can  see  it  by  your  dear 
face.  How  strange  and  beautiful  it  has  become! 
I  always  thought  you  beautiful,  but  now— what  is  it, 
Con?" 

"God's  love,"  said  Con. 

"  God's  love !  "  she  whispered  to  herself.  "  I  '11  wait 
for  you— with  the  baby— and  both  the  mothers— by 
the  gate,  Con— right  by  the  gate.  Don't  pass  us  by. 
Con  darling,  kiss  me— yes,  that-a-way.  We  '11  never 
git  tired  of  waiting.  But  don't  be  long.  It  can't  be 
quite  heaven  without  you.  Con,  there  are  no  jails  up 
there.  Nor  any  wrong— or  mistakes— God  is  there! 
and  he— understands !  Kiss  me— again— and  again 
—and  again— darling !  Con— your  head  is  white— your 
—face  shines.  Con— good-by— good-by  till— we  meet* 
—by— the  gate—" 

For  the  officer  had  come  to  take  Con  back  to  the 
prison. 

And  then  yesterday  they  brought  Con  up  again  to 
the  little  house  in  the  little  street  where  you  know 
there  was  no  sunshine,  to  stand  for  the  last  time  by  the 
side  of  his  wife  and  baby.  He  stooped  within  the 
coffin  to  whisper  something,  as  if  they  could  hear. 
Tli en  he  kissed  the  roses  on  the  coffin-lid  and  knelt 
there  gazing  into  the  face  of  his  wife  while  I  read 


WHERE  THE  SUN  NEVER  CAME  185 

those  compassionate  Scriptures  for  the  living  whose 
loved  have  died : 

"  Man  that  is  born  of  a  woman 
Is  of  few  days,  and  full  of  trouble. 
He  cometh  forth  like  a  flower,  and  is  cut  down : 
He  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow,  and  continueth  not. 
Man  is  like  to  vanity : 

His  days  are  as  a  shadow  that  passeth  away. 
His  days  are  as  grass ; 
As  a  flower  of  the  field,  so  he  perisheth. 
For  the  wind  passeth  over  it,  and  it  is  gone ; 
And  the  place  thereof  shall  know  it  no  more. 
He  hath  not  dealt  with  us  after  our  sins, 
Nor  rewarded  us  according  to  our  iniquities. 
For  he  knoweth  our  frame ; 
He  remembereth  that  we  are  dust." 

Some  trembling  voice  began  to  sing : 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly ! 

The  old  song ! 

The  hearse  drove  noisily  to  the  door.  They  took  up 
the  coffin.  With  a  mighty  sob  Con  snatched  a  rose. 
They  stopped  pityingly  that  he  might  look  once  more, 
—that  he  might  kiss  the  black  cabinet  which  held  her 
dust  who  had  given  him  all  the  brief  happiness  he 
had  known,— and  then  they  went  their  separate  ways : 
Con  to  the  prison— Mary  and  her  babe  to  the  grave. 

Dearly  beloved,  receive  the  benediction:  May  the 
grace  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ  ~be  upon  you, 
and  abide  with  you,  now  and  evermore.  Amen. 


THE  ATONEMENT 


THE  ATONEMENT 


"AFTER  TAKING" 

WHEN,  finally,  he  woke  from  the  trance  of  ill 
ness,  he  fancied  that  the  strange  girl  at  his 
bedside  knew  all  about  it,  and  took  up  the  affair  with 
the  specious  gaiety  which  is  pitiful  in  that  it  never 
deceives.  It  did  not  deceive  her.  She  knew  at  once 
that  he  had  been  deeply  hurt.  She  admitted  promptly 
that  she  knew.  But  it  was  not  with  his  lightness. 
There  was  a  look  out  of  a  pair  of  marvelous  young 
eyes  straight  into  his  own  which  shamed  him.  He 
tried  to  be  aJittle  less  oblique  about  it.  But  it  was 
embarrassing.  What  attitude,  he  asked  himself, 
whimsically,  is  a  rejected  suitor  to  take  ?  Especially 
when  circumstances  have  made  both  the  fact  that  he 
has  been  rejected,  and  that  it  has  hurt,  public  1 

Later  the  girl  with  the  great  gray  eyes  placed  in 
his  hands  a  little  volume  of  clippings  relating  to  the 
affair  of  the  rescue.  They  were  carefully  gummed 
between  illuminated  borders.  The  front  cover  fanci 
fully  illustrated  the  fire,  and  the  back  was  gay  with  a 

189 


190  THE  ATONEMENT 

bunch  of  poppies.  Facing  the  clippings  there  was  a 
newspaper  portrait  of  him,  washed  in  with  water- 
colors.  It  was  so  evidently  the  work  of  some  one 
who  had  not  yet  been  entirely  rescued  from  things 
childish  that  he  expected  her  to  smile  when  she  handed 
it  to  him.  But  she  did  not.  When  he  looked  up  there 
was  the  same  straight  look  from  the  eyes — with  a 
little  questioning  in  them  now.  Suddenly  it  occurred 
to  him  that  she  had  done  it.  Then,  after  another  look 
upward,  he  was  sure  she  had.  He  meant  to  go  on 
with  her  as  if  he  understood  that.  He  pointed  to  the 
apocryphal  portrait  and  said  smilingly : 

"  As  I  ought  to  be,  I  suppose,  not  as  I  am." 

Now,  as  he  looked  up,  the  gray  eyes  were  veiled  by 
their  lids. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  not  as  you  are.  But  they  told  me 
it  was  quite  like  you  before.  And  I  was  glad  of  that  j 
I  preferred  to  have  it  as  you  were  before." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  sick  man ;  "  so  should  I." 

His  tones  were  as  full  of  irony  as  a  sick  man's 
may  be. 

"  Are  you  angry  ?  "  asked  the  girl.  ^ 

She  looked  quickly  up,  and  he  caught  the  alarm  in 
her  voice —felt  its  little  vibrations.  She  perceived  this, 
and  the  red  shot  from  her  throat  to  her  forehead. 

"  Who  was  so  good  as  to  tell  you  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Miss  Hilliard,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  Her  opinion  is  of  the  greatest  value." 

The  girl  did  not  understand  that  this  was  mere 
bitterness. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quite  simply. 

The  man  smiled. 


THE  ATONEMENT  191 

"  Here  is  the  <  Before  Taking.'  Now  will  you  not 
give  me  the  l  After  Taking '  ? " 

She  did  not  understand.  He  tapped  the  volume  on 
the  bed. 

"Why  do  I  not  look  like  that  now?" 

She  examined  him  a  moment. 

"I  do  not  know— exactly.  But  there  is  a  great 
scar  across  your  forehead.  There  are  a  number  of 
smaller  ones.  And  your  hair  has  not  yet  grown.  But 
there  is  something  else.  I  think  it  is  something  spir 
itual.  It  is  as  if  you  had  learned  afterward  to  mock 
at  things.  It  is  difficult  to  explain  how  that  shows  in 
a  face  or  a  portrait.  But  I  see  it.  The  scars  will  not 
make  much  difference.  When  they  are  healed  you 
will  look  quite  like  my  portrait— if  it  were  not  for 
that.  And  — "  she  waited  an  appreciable  instant 
before  she  concluded,  and  then  she  did  so  haltingly— 
"and  I  hope— that  will— pass— away." 

He  could  not  see  her  eyes  then,  and  her  voice  had 
sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  And  he  was  surprised  to 
find  something  queer  rising  in  his  throat.  With  a 
boyish  impulse  he  reached  out  and  caught  her  hand. 
It  was  a  very  pretty  hand— he  could  feel  that  much. 
But  she  shyly  withdrew  it. 

"You  are  a  serious  little  person— and  a  shy  one," 
he  laughed  ruefully. 

He  saw  at  once  that  he  had  struck  a  false 
note.  She  turned  her  back  and  walked  to  the  win 
dow.  He  pursued  her  with  his  mood  of  half -bitter 
ness  again : 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  a  thing.  Yet  I  know  that 
you  have  been  very  good  to  me." 


192  THE  ATONEMENT 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  she  asked,  with  her 
slender  back  still  toward  him. 

"  I  should  otherwise  be  dead." 

She  faced  him  quickly.  Something  between  anger 
and  reproach  dyed  her  face.  But  then  it  resumed  its 
paleness,  and  she  turned  back  to  the  window. 

"  But  I  am  going  to  reward  you—"  the  man  went  on. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  rewarded,"  she  broke  in  as  he 
paused. 

"  By  getting  well  very  quickly  and  going  away,"  he 
finished. 

The  girl  said  nothing ;  but  presently  he  could  see 
her  put  her  handkerchief  surreptitiously  to  her  eyes. 

"I  am  a  brute,"  he  said  savagely.  "Pardon  me. 
And  will  you  not  come  here  ? " 

She  did  not  turn. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you  alone  for  a  little  while,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"  Yes.     But  first  tell  me  who  you  are." 

"I  would  rather  not— just  now,"  begged  the  girl. 

He  hesitated  a  moment— surprised  again  to  find  the 
troublesome  lump  in  his  throat.  Then,  when  he  spoke, 
his  voice  betrayed  him. 

"  All  right.     I  do  not  deserve  it." 

She  instantly  turned  and  came  toward  the  bed.  He 
could  see  the  moisture  still  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  Helen  Vernon,"  she  said. 

"  Miss  Hilliard's  cousin  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  sick  man,  turning  away. 

"  She  did  not  send  me,"  the  girl  defended.  "  I  came 
myself.  You  needed  some  one— who— who  cared." 


THE  ATONEMENT  193 

Though  she  faltered  she  said  it  bravely. 

"  And  you  cared  ?  " 

The  girl  hesitated.     Then  she  said  quietly : 

"Yes." 

"But  why?" 

Again  she  hesitated ;  and  her  distress  was  more 
evident. 

"I  don't  know." 

"She  suggested  it— in  atonement?" 

"It  was— against  her  wishes." 

"  But  it  was  in  atonement  1 " 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,"  she  said  busily. 

"  Don't  be  cruel  j  be  frank." 

He  caught  her  hand  as  she  endeavored  to  pass. 

"That  would  be  cruel— very,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  straightly. 

He  suddenly  and  spiritlessly  let  her  hand  go.  It 
dropped  nervelessly  at  her  side.  She  lingered  now, 
in  a  state  of  some  embarrassment. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  the  girl  ventured. 

He  looked  up  with  a  half-smile. 

"  It  was  not  as  you  think.  You  were  cruel  to  her. 
It  was  for  pity  of  her  I  came." 

"Me!     Cruel!    To  her!" 


II 

HOW  HEROES  ARE  MADE— IN  THE  NEWSPAPERS 

His  amazement  brought  him  upright  in  the  bed. 
"  You  would  not  permit  her  to  come  near  you." 

13 


194  THE  ATONEMENT 

"  Di-did  she — try  ? "  gasped  the  sick  man. 

"Yes— very— hard,"  breathed  the  girl.  "It  was— 
pitiful !  She  was  so  sorry— and  she  wished  to— oh, 
do  you  not  understand  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  sick  man,  hoarsely,  relapsing  upon 
the  pillows.  "  I  was— I  must  have  been  delirious." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  quietly,  "  or  you  could  not 
have  been  so  cruel.  You  cursed  her !  You  said  you 
never  wished  to  see  her  face  again." 

"  And  then— she— " 

"  She  stopped  trying." 

"  I  don't  remember,"  he  repeated ;  "  I  was— I  must 
have  been—" 

"  Yes,  you  were  delirious.  But  you  knew  it  was 
she." 

The  sick  man's  hands  gripped  each  other  under  the 
covers. 

"  When— is  she  to  be  married?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  hesitated  before  delivering  the  blow. 

11  She  is  married." 

The  sick  man  gulped  pitifully  upon  something  in 
his  throat.  The  hands  clenched  a  little  tighter.  % 

"  That  's— all— right,"  he  said. 

The  girl  completed  what  she  seemed  to  think  he 
ought  to  know  rapidly. 

"  She,  too,  was  ill  afterward.  They  were  married 
at  once  and  went  abroad.  They  are  in  Paris  now. 
You  have  been  ill  longer  than  you  think." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  trying  to  smile  up  at  her. 
Then,  to  make  her  think,  if  he  could,  that  he  had  dis 
missed  the  matter :  "  Will  you  kindly  read  me  the 
most  nattering  of  those  clippings  ?  I  should  like  ta 


THE  ATONEMENT  195 

know  what  I  did  to  deserve  such  fame.  Ah,  but  par 
don  me ;  you  must  go,  I  think  you  said." 

The  girl  flushed.  Then  the  strange,  serious  look— 
which  seemed  so  much  too  old  for  her  face — came  back. 

"  I  should  like  to  read  the  clippings,"  she  said  very 
softly. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  sick  man. 

And  the  word  said  so  much  more  than  print  can  ex 
press  !  He  wanted  her  to  stay,  and  wanted  her  so 
much  more  than  he  thought  she  could  fancy.  He  was 
reaching  out  to  her— out  of  a  vast  chaos  of  emptiness 
and  hopelessness  which  had  suddenly  opened  about 
him  when  her  words  had  swept  the  comfort  of  cyni 
cism  away.  She  seemed  all  there  was  in  the  world 
just  then  of  kindness  and  goodness.  But  for  her  he 
felt  shudderingly  alone  and  outcast.  He  looked  at  her 
as  she  read  for  him.  Only  a  little  girl !  But  if  she 
chose  to  be  sympathetic— kind— should  he  refuse, 
no  matter  what  the  motive  ?  She  was  very  pretty  as 
she  read.  With  her  head  bent  that  way  he  could  see 
the  top  of  her  head  with  its  crown  of  brown  hair. 
Her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  were  closed  at  that  angle. 
The  lashes  swept  luxuriantly  over  her  cheeks.  All 
the  face  was  rounded  with  the  charm  of  adolescence. 
And  her  voice  was  what  an  older  woman's  should  be 
—he  could  easily  fancy  what  it  would  be  a  little  later. 

She  closed  the  book  and  looked  up.  Something 
still  in  his  face,  dreamily,  hopelessly,  longingly,  made 
her  flush  again  and  suddenly  rise. 

"  What  a  fraud  you  have  all  permitted  me  to  be 
come  !  "  he  laughed  presently. 

The  girl  quickly  returned  to  him. 


196  THE  ATONEMENT 

4 1  Is  it  not  true  ? "  she  questioned. 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  hero?" 

"  No/'  said  the  girl,  with  a  half -sigh ;  "  the  mockery 
has  come  back  to  your  face." 

The  man  laughed.  There  was  a  certain  comforting 
bravado  in  the  fact. 

"  No  man  is  hero  to  his  nurse.  I  wish  very  much 
to  retain  your  regard.  If  I  assume  that  role  now  I 
could  not  live  up  to  it  later.  Then—" 

The  girl  stirred  uneasily,  and  he  had  the  conscious 
ness  that  she  was  resenting  this.  Curiously,  he  was 
glad  that  he  could  give  her  pain.  He  went  on  with 
a  queer  grimness : 

"  It  is  quite  true  that  I  proposed  to  your  cousin  on 
1  the  fatal  night/  to  speak  by  the  book,  and  that  my 
successful  rival  is  Mr.  Haney,  the  brewer.  It  is  not 
true,  as  you  know,  I  believe,  that  he  is  illiterate  and 
vulgar.  Your  cousin  would  never  choose  such  a  man 
under  even  more  trying  circumstances.  Haney  is  a 
gentleman,  a  college  grad,  and  an  altogether  good 
fellow.  He  is  a  much  better  fellow  than  I.  There 
fore  the  wisdom  of  your  cousin's  choice  is  apparent. 
I  heartily  approve  of  it.  The  rest  is  better  guessing. 
I  was  sleeping  when  the  knowledge  somehow  reached 
me  that  my  neighbor's  house  was  afire.  I  dressed, 
and  descended  the  scuttle  of  the  said  house,  with  the 
sole  idea  of  being  useful.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
stumble  over  your  cousin,  and  carried  her  out.  I  had 
to  get  out  myself,  and  it  would  have  been  excessively 
impolite  to  leave  her  behind.  That  was  all." 

"  Not  all,"  said  the  girl,  following  the  clippings. 
"  You  said  you  would  save  her  or  die  with  her." 


THE  ATONEMENT  197 

The  sick  man  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"But  did  you?"  asked  the  girl,  with  some  vehe 
mence. 

"  I  did  not,"  said  the  man. 

She  read  a  little  further,  then  said : 

"  But  you  did  take  off  your  own  coat  and  wrap  it 
around  her  head  to  save  her  hair  ? " 

"  It  was  a  blanket  from  the  servant's  bed,"  he 
laughed  again,  "  and  it  was  to  save  her  head." 

"  But  this  is  true.  It  was  seen  to  have  occurred. 
'  Her  arms  were  found  to  be  so  closely  locked  about 
him  that  it  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
they  were  separated.  And  when  this  was  accom 
plished  she  moaned  pitifully  and  begged  to  go  back 
to  him.' " 

"  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  such  theatrical  per 
formance." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  the  girl  5  "  you  were  uncon 
scious." 

"Oh,  was  I?" 

He  took  the  book  from  her,  and,  for  a  moment, 
examined  the  pretty  hands. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  go  away?"  asked  the  girl, 
shyly. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  it  is  better?"  he  challenged. 

"  No ;  I  should  think  you  would  wish  to  be  with 
your  friends— at— such  a  time." 

"  What  kind  of  a  time  ? " 

Her  face  grew  furiously  red. 

"  At  a  time  of —of —misfortune." 

"  That 's  why  I  wish  to  go." 

She  looked  up  misunderstandingly. 


198  THE  ATONEMENT 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  remain  longer  a  subject  for— 
pity?- 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  spoke. 

"  No,"  she  said  then ;   "pity  is  odious  !  " 

She  passed  softly  out  and  closed  the  door. 

But  the  getting  away  was  more  easy  in  theory  than 
in  practice.  He  had  overestimated  his  strength,  and 
had  a  relapse.  When  he  spoke  of  going  again,  the 
girl  leaned  over  him  winningly  and  said : 

"  Don't  try  again,  please,  till  you  are  quite  sure— 
until  the  doctor—" 

She  smiled  the  rest,  and  his  eyes  followed  her 
glance  out  of  the  window. 

"  What  is  it  you  always  see  out  there— after  I  have 
been  brutal  to  you  ?  " 

She  turned  upon  him,  still  smiling,  but  showing 
some  surprise. 

"  Nothing ! " 

And  then  she  laughed. 

"Nothing?"  questioned  the  invalid. 

"  I  don't  think  I  know  exactly  what  is  over  there/' 
the  girl  admitted.  % 

"  Why,"  complained  the  sick  man,  "  it 's  a  brick 
wall ! " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  it  is,"  consented  the  nurse. 

"  I  am  glad  we  have  become  better  friends,"  said 
the  invalid. 

"  Yes,"  breathed  the  girl,  with  emotion. 

But  presently  the  day  came  to  say  good-by.  And 
he  was  suddenly  conscious  how  awkwardly  he  was 
doing  it— and  how  much  better  she  was. 

"Why,  hang  it  all!"  he  laughed  suddenly,  "I— I 


THE  ATONEMENT  199 

believe  I  'm  going  to  cry.  Hurry  or  it  will  be  too  late 
to  save  me !  Yes— may  I  kiss  you  ? " 

She  put  up  her  lips  and  closed  her  eyes.  But  her 
face  was  shudderingly  cold  when  he  touched  it. 

He  held  her  a  moment. 

"  You  are  cold,"  he  said  softly. 

She  swayed  toward  him  and  then  suddenly  back. 
In  a  moment  she  stiffened  and  opened  her  eyes.  They 
had  in  them  a  strange  wild  look  of  agony. 

"  I  wish  you  a  safe— journey/7  she  said. 

She  began  steadily,  but  her  voice  broke  a  little  at 
the  end. 

Something  leaped  up  in  the  breast  of  the  man,  and 
he  came  toward  her. 

"  Nell,"  he  began,  "  shall  I  stay  here?" 

But  she  turned  and  ran  from  him. 

"  Came  near  being  an  ass,"  said  the  man,  bitterly, 
turning  away. 


Ill 

THE   BLOND   CAPILLARIES 

HE  had  some  further  medical  assistance  in  London, 
and  later  he  met  an  acquaintance  who  recognized  him 
quite  readily,  and  who  assured  him  that  his  scars  had 
nearly  disappeared. 

"  They  do  some  clever  skin-grafting  over  here," 
said  his  friend. 

'•  That  was  done  in  America." 

"  Oh  !     Well,  they  were  good  enough  to  give  you  a 


200  THE  ATONEMENT 

better  skin  than  you  had  before."  He  came  close 
and  inspected  it.  "  Much  finer."  Then  he  pulled  out 
a  pocket  microscope  and  put  it  on  the  scar.  He 
laughed.  "  But,  I  say,  the  person  who  supplied  the 
fresh  tissue  was  blond.  It  will  never  be  a  matter  of 
any  consequence,  but  the  capillaries  in  the  new  skin 
are  blond,  while  yours  are  dark !  " 

When  Garford  got  home  he  looked  at  the  scar 
carefully.  It  was  on  the  forehead,  just  under  his 
own  hair.  What  his  medical  friend  had  said  was 
true.  The  down  on  the  transplanted  skin  was  quite 
blond.  However,  it  would  never  show,  and  he  laughed 
a  little,  and  thought  how  he  would  revile  the  doctor 
about  it  when  he  got  back  to  America.  And  then 
suddenly,  with  the  word,  an  immense  nostalgia  seized 
him.  America !  It  was  overpowering.  He  tried  to 
sleep  it  off,  but  without  the  least  success.  And  the 
next  day  the  girl  he  had  found  at  his  bedside  got  into 
his  head  once  more,  somehow,  and  stayed  there.  He 
raised  the  hair  from  his  forehead  and  looked  at  his 
scar  in  the  glass. 

"  I  have  been  going  about  the  world  thinking  that| 
nobody  in  it  cares  for  me.  Yet  here  is  some  one  who 
has  cared  for  me  sufficiently  to  suffer  physical  pain 
for  me.  And  I  have  never  had  the  grace  to  ask  who 
it  was  !  Some  poor  devil  of  a  hospital  attendant,  no 
doubt,  who  has  never  had  a  dollar  for  it.  Well,  the 
moment  I  reach  America  I  shall  inquire  who  it  was— 
and  then—"  He  looked  a  little  closer.  "  It  is  finer 
than  my  own  skin.  I  wonder  who  ?  Good  God,  it 
may  have  been  a  child— a  child  from  the  slums  !  I  Ve 
heard  of  such  things."  He  shuddered.  "  After  all, 


THE  ATONEMENT  201 

it  7s  uncanny  to  think  that  you  have  a  part  of  some 
one  else's  body  patched  upon  your  own  !  I  wonder  I 
never  thought  of  it  before  !  1 'm  going  home  to  find 
out.  It  's  horrible !  Yet,  stop  !  What  would  be  the 
good  of  finding  out  ?  It  could  not  be  undone.  And 
I  might  find  the  person— unclean." 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  for  the  next  ten 
minutes.  "  Better  stay  away/'  he  ended. 

And  he  fought  the  nostalgia  and  the  demon  of  the 
scar  for  another  year.  But  then  it  had  grown  too 
strong  for  him. 

"  I  have  got  to  go  and  find  him.  I  must  see  him,  at 
least.  There  is  no  use  in  going  on  in  this  way.  I 
must  know  something  about  him." 


IV 

WHAT  RENT  SHOULD  ONE  PAY  FOR  A  PATCH  OF  SKIN? 

HE  went  straight  to  the  house  of  Nell  Vernon.  He 
meant  to  despatch  the  whole  matter  in  a  few  words. 
But  she  staggered  him  when  he  saw  her.  She  was  a 
woman  now. 

"  And  a  royal  one !  "  he  thought  as  she  approached 
him  down  the  stairway. 

She  welcomed  him  with  a  charming  self-possession, 
yet  with  something  quite  as  unworldly  as  if  she  had 
not  "  grown  up." 

"  I  came  to  see  you  first,"  he  said,  with  an  abashed 
irrelevancy  which  surprised  him. 


202  THE  ATONEMENT 

"  Of  course,"  smiled  Nell.  "  Did  n't  you  promise 
when  you  went  away — " 

"  Before  I  went  away/'  he  corrected. 

"  Yes  !  "  laughed  Nell.  "  When  you  went  we  did  n't 
have  much  to  say.  Do  you  remember  it  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  he,  with  curious  savagery. 

"  So  do  I." 

"  Is  that  all  you  remember?"  he  asked. 

"  Y-es,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  window.  Thence 
she  returned  in  a  moment  with  that  curiously  straight 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  came  to  find  out,"  he  said  then,  abruptly,  "  who 
supplied  the  skin  which  was  grafted  here." 

He  raised  the  hair  and  exposed  the  scar. 

The  girl's  eyes  drooped  a  little. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  then. 

"  I— I  want  to  pay  him.  It  is  bad  enough  to  be 
carrying  about  with  you  a  patch  of  somebody  else's 
body,  let  alone  to  be  owing  a  couple  of  years'  rent  for 
it.  Who  was  it  ?  I  was  under  the  influence  of  ether. 
But  you  know." 

"  I— I  am  not  sure,"  faltered  the  girl,  "  that  I  know. 
Was— was  it  a  man  ? " 

"No.  I  think  it  must  have  been  a  child.  That 
makes  it  all  the  more  horrible— to  owe  one's  life  to  a 
child.  That  a  child  should  be  crippled  in  that  way 
to  save  my  worthless  carcass  !  " 

Nell  had  grown  pale. 

"  Look !  Don't  you  think  it  must  have  been  the 
skin  of  a  child?" 

She  shrank  away. 

"  I— I  cannot  look  at  it— please  '  " 


THE   ATONEMENT  203 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  more  easily.  "  I  really  did 
not  think  how  brutal  that  was.  Ill  see  the  doctor 
about  it." 

A  sudden  alarm  energized  the  girl. 

"  No,  no  j  I  do  not  think  he  knows.  I  ;m  sure  he 
does  not.  I  got — got — the  person.  I  think  I  can 
find  out  who  it  was.  I— 1 11  try— and  then— then  you 
can  give  me  the  money  to— to  pay  him." 

"  Money  cannot  pay  him.  But  he  is  to  have  that, 
since  I  can  give  him  nothing  else !  " 

To  his  surprise,  she  suddenly  sobbed. 

She  looked  up  presently  and  said : 

"  I'm  very  sorry— but  at  the  mere  thought— my— 
my  nerves—"  She  tried  to  smile  then  through  her 
wet  eyelashes,  and  Garford  fled  from  them.  It  was 
the  nurse  all  over  again.  And,  even  as  it  was,  he  saw 
that  smile  for  days.  He  was  too  frightened  to  go 
again  at  once,  but  every  day  or  two  would  send  some 
message.  But  something  in  him  wanted  to  go  there 
after  all,  and  finally  he  drifted  back.  And  then— 
After  that  they  were  always  together.  But  their  in 
timacy  did  not  grow.  He  had  built  up  somewhere  a 
stone  wall  against  it. 


V 

SHE     SENT   HIM  TO  NELL— THEN  SOBBED! 

HE  took  lodgings  in  one  of  the  tall  apartment- 
houses  which  had  been  built  in  his  absence,  and  re 
sumed  such  of  his  intimacies  as  he  considered  un- 


204  THE  ATONEMENT 

broken.  There  were  few  enough  of  these.  But 
among  them,  for  some  reason  not  quite  plain  to  him, 
he  had  chosen  to  consider  those  concerning  the  man 
whom  Miss  Hilliard  had  married.  He  told  him 
self  that  it  was  only  because  he  was  a  thoroughly 
good  fellow;  but  he  could  not  have  been  sure  that 
this  was  the  only  reason. 

"  Wants  to  see  how  hard  he  was  hit,"  remarked  a 
clubman. 

"  Or  see  how  badly  she  's  hit,"  answered  another. 

"  Simply  a  new  style  of  revenge,"  said  a  third. 

"  To  see  whether  they  are  living  happily  ever  after," 
added  a  fourth. 

At  all  events,  it  resulted  in  a  new  and  surprisingly 
pleasant  friendship  with  the  woman  who  had  jilted 
him.  G-arford  was  amazed  to  find  how  impersonal 
and  frank  their  intimacy  at  once  became. 

"  I  guess  neither  of  us  was  badly  hurt,"  he  said  to 
himself,  guiltily,  as  he  went  home  one  night. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  with  her  frank  smile,  as 
she  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  tea-table  one  after 
noon  and  leaned  her  elbows  prettily  on  it,  "that  l\ 
have  been  wondering  ever  since  you  came  back  what 
you  thought  of  me— " 

"  Madam,  I  thought  you  knew,"  said  her  guest, 
"  before  I  went  away." 

"  Oh,  if  it 's  going  to  be  sir  and  madam—  Will 
you  have  some  more  tea  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  laughed ;  "  I  don 't  deserve  it." 

"  I  meant,  you  know,"  she  said,  putting  the  pot 
back  on  its  hook,  "  whether  you  found  me  changed— 
much." 


THE  ATONEMENT  205 

"  Not  much— a  little  older/7  he  said. 

"  The  same  to  you,  ungallant  sir !  "  she  retorted. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  not  the  same.  I  am  very  much 
older." 

"  Oh ! "  she  repented  softly.  But  she  did  not 
deny  it. 

"  You  see,  I  am  gray  at  the  temples." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  an  entire  change  of  manner. 
She  was  looking  down  and  twisting  a  curious  ring 
around  her  finger. 

"  Clever  workmanship,"  he  said. 

She  looked  quickly  up. 

"  The  ring." 

Something  fled  across  her  face,  and  she  hid  the 
hand. 

"  Oh,"  he  laughed,  "is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"  I  see  you  recognize  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  ?  No.  I  never  saw  it  before.  I  was  only  ad 
miring  the  cunning  of  the  artificer  who  made  it." 

'•  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  it  was  a  cunning  artificer." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"  Fire,"  she  answered,  looking  straightly  at  him. 

"  Ah !  then  it  is  Truth,  not  Fiction  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  know,"  said  the  woman,  rising. 

Suddenly  he  understood.  It  was  the  ring  he  had 
offered  her  the  night  of  the  fire.  It  had  been  partially 
melted.  She  saw  that  he  knew. 

"  Are  you  displeased  that  I  wear  it  ? " 

"  Not  I,"  he  said  lightly.  "  I  suppose  you  mortify 
your  soul  with  it  when  you  are  naughty.  You  are 
naughty  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  humbly. 


206  THE  ATONEMENT 

He  felt  a  sudden  aversion  to  the  incident,  and  took 
up  his  hat  to  go.  But  she  was  plainly  unwilling  that 
he  should  do  this. 

"  Do— do  you  wish  it  back  ? " 

He  stared. 

"  The  ring." 

"  Not  I,"  he  laughed.  "  I  have  no  use  for  such  a 
thing  nowadays." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  say  that,"  the  woman  mur 
mured. 

"  Oh !    Well,  then,  I  won't." 

But  his  laughter  was  unpleasant. 

Again  he  tried  to  go,  but  she  detained  him. 

"  Oh,"  she  suddenly  pleaded,  "  do  not  make  it  so 
hard  for  me  !  " 

"  Hard— hard? "  he  said  bewilderedly.  "  I  do  not 
understand." 

"  No !  "  She  closed  her  teeth  and  went  on :  "  Men 
never  do.  I  sent  for  you  to-day  to  tell  you— tell  you 
that  the  happiness  of  another— so  dear— so  very  dear 
to  me!— depends  upon  whether  you  understand  or 
not.  And  you  are  making  it  so  hard— so  hard  for 
me  !  Have  you  no  mercy  ? " 

The  man  staggered  away  in  some  sort  of  fear  to  the 
door-post. 

"No;  don't  do  that— don't  look  at  me  that  way. 
We  are  friends  now— friends.  And  yet  it  is  so  hard 
to  speak  plainly.  Can  you  not  guess  what  I  would 
say?  No!" 

She  suddenly  dropped  her  arms  at  her  side.  Then, 
as  suddenly : 

"  May  I  look  at  the  scar  on  your  forehead? " 


THE  ATONEMENT  207 

He  nodded ;  and  she  led  him  to  the  light  and  lifted 
the  hair. 

"  Yes,"  she  smiled  ;  "  I  can  tell  you  now.  Where 
one  has  suffered  for  another—" 

Suddenly  he  understood. 

"  Who— who,"  he  cried,  "  has  suffered  for  me?  I 
came  home  to  find  him.  Who — who  is  he  ?  Nothing 
I  can  give  shall  be  too  much.  I  didn't  know— I 
did  n't  know  till  they  told  me  on  the  other  side.  Who 
has  given  part  of  his  very  body— crippling  it  that 
mine  might  be  whole  ?  " 

"  No !  Men  are  so  blind !  I  made  you  so  unhappy 
— once — oh,  so  unhappy !  And  happiness  is  so  sweet 
and  so  rare  that  you  will,  I  think,  pardon  me  for  hav 
ing  sought  this  opportunity  to  make  you  happy. 

"  I  see  you  with  Nell  always,  always— and  know 
that  you  do  not  even  guess  how  it  all  is.  Can  you  not 
see  that,  if  she  was  a  child  when  you  went  away,  she 
is  a  woman  now  ?  And  oh,  there  is  no  one  in  all  the 
world  like  her !  She  has  tenderness  and  sweetness  in 
finite—and  it  is  all  for  you.  She  has  lived  and  mod 
eled  herself  as  she  thinks  you  would  have  her.  And 
she  has  waited  for  you  to  come  for  her.  She  has 
never  doubted  that  you  would— until  you  did.  She 
has  kept  for  you  the  lips  you  never  even  asked  her  to 
keep.  Because  you  kissed  them  last.  You  might 
have  kissed  them  when  you  came.  But,  instead,  you 
gave  her  nothing  but  your  hands!  She  suffered  to 
patch  that  scar,  as  you  say.  It  was  agony,  but  she 
did  it  for  you.  The  scar  is  there  now— under  her  hair 
at  her  neck— and  she  is  very  proud  of  it !  She  has 
thought  you  a  demigod.  That  was  all  wrong ;  for  I 


208  THE  ATONEMENT 

knew  you  to  be  only  a  man.  But  she  is  a  woman 
now,  as  I  was  then,  and  you  are  breaking  her  heart. 
She  loves  you— and  you  are  her  first  love  !  Think  of 
that.  All  that  sweet  heart—" 

Garford  had  sunk  into  a  chair. 

"  But,"  the  woman  went  on  softly,  "  I  knew— I  un 
derstood.  You  see,  I  am  so  much  older  and  wiser 
now.  And  I  sent  for  you  that  I  might  tell  you.  Men 
are  so  blind— so  blind !  " 

Garford  slowly  rose.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  his 
eyes  were  suffused. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  have  found  me  out ;  I  thought 
I  had  it  all  so  well  concealed.  I  thought  it  too  im 
possible  even  to  dream  of.  I  knew  that  she  was  very 
kind;  but  I  fancied  it  was  still  her  pity— she  used  to 
pity  me." 

"  Pity !  She  never  pitied  you !  She  loved  you 
then.  She  has  always  loved  you— even  when  I—" 

She  suddenly  halted. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  asked  Garford,  taking  the 
hands  she  let  fall. 

11  Go — now — now — and  ask  her  to  be  your  wife. 
And  tell— her— tell  her— that  /—that  I  sent  you !  " 

He  was  going. 

"  And  God  bless  you !  "  she  said  after  him. 

And  then— when  he  was  quite  gone— she  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow  of  the  couch  and  suddenly 
sobbed. 


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